


Nothing to Lose but Chains

by ponticle



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Canonical Character Death, Changing Tenses, Childhood, Childhood Memories, Developing Relationship, Explosions, M/M, Magical Realism, Magical Violence, Multiple Relationships, POV Dorian Pavus, POV First Person, Political Campaigns, Politics, Secret Society, Slow Burn, Spells & Enchantments, War, neofascism, political structures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-06-30 06:37:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 31,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15746292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponticle/pseuds/ponticle
Summary: Dorian Pavus, a political campaign strategist, hasn't had a congressional candidate to believe in before, but Anders might change all that... along with Dorian's outlook oneverything.





	1. Charming, not Sincere

**Author's Note:**

> Several months ago, I said to little_abyss, "I want to write a story that's about some external force, not only interpersonal struggle. Something big and meaningful!" This is the result...

* * *

It’s a volatile thing… as fragile as kindling and just as likely to burst into flames—to burn out as it is to spread. Everyone can feel it, but no one will say its name… except Anders—it’s his _way_ , his nature… and if he’s not careful, it will be his undoing.

...that’s why _I’m_ here: to save him, ostensibly from political suicide… but we both know… it’s from _himself_.

 

* * *

 

Just after midnight, on the first day of Wintermarch, I received a call.

“Yes?”

“Dorian Pavus?”

“Hmm?”

“I have an opportunity for you.”

 

I didn’t know then that his name is Varric—a gruff sort of person who wields political power from an unusual vantage point. That is to say, he doesn't _care_ one way or another. He would say he isn’t _saddled with belief_ … It terrifies me, but I laugh anyway.

A survival strategy in my line of work is _always_ to laugh. Perhaps I should explain: I’m Dorian, and I run campaigns. At least, I used to.

“I’m out of the game,” I told him. “I’ve had it with politicians.”

He laughed. “You won’t be when you hear who’s running.”

 

...and he was right. Anders changed everything, or he _will_ , if he wins. That’s the hard part… and the part I’m going to make sure of. We have a few hurdles, of course. Namely, his opponent, Cullen (insert a pretentious number of names here) Rutherford. Practically raised to play at politics, a hardass for rules… he’s exactly the kind of person to make me come out of retirement. In fact, that’s exactly what Varric said—the clincher:

“If you don’t help him, Anders has no shot at winning—you should see his hair…”

I sighed. “I’m not in the habit of taking on charity cases, Varric.”

“Listen, if you let Rutherford win, we’re in for another four years of white bread dynasty…”

“Rutherford?”

“Yeah… that asshole is so far up Meredith Corp’s ass, he can probably taste the earmark spending…”

 _Silence_.

“Fine… I’ll meet with your guy… but I’m not making any promises.”

 

And so here I am, two months away from an election that I know is going to make or break my career, but more than that, it’s going to change things—for all of us.

 

* * *

 

 

“Anders?” The lights are still on in his room and I can see something shift beneath the edge of the door, but he doesn’t answer me. “Anders? What are you doing?”

A shifting sound and the door swings open with a whine. He’s smiling on the other side, but he looks tired. “Sorry, I was lost in thought.” He steps back and gestures. “Come in?”

I nod and step past him into the sparsely appointed suite. It looks just like a thousand other hotel rooms we’ve stayed in during this campaign—utterly indistinguishable, and yet, _Anders_ couldn’t be more different. You’d never know it from the way his tie hangs around his collar and the sharp crease in his trousers, but he wasn’t like this a few months ago—he was all combat boots and patchwork vests. None of that flies in a political climate, though, so we worked on ‘fixing’ his image. It was sort of a struggle, actually, because we didn’t want to alienate his base, but he needed to be electable.

Let me back up… Anders was not a politician originally. He emerged from a grassroots, vaguely underground, movement. His first supporters were elves—who still face so much prejudice, despite hundreds of years of supposed progress—and those who have some ancestral inclination toward magic. It’s not _true_ , of course… it’s ridiculous… but as strange as it sounds, _I’m_ actually one of them.

Historically speaking, the Pavuses have ‘magic in our blood’—whatever _that_ means. My father tried to teach me about it in my youth, but it was so mired in familial pressure and judgment that I never really learned the history very well. I did learn it _ironically_ , though… just enough to impress my friends in college with a premonition here and a well-placed insight there… skepticism runs deeper in me than anything else, which I think makes the whole thing more believable. If even a _skeptic_ can be convinced… then… well…

Anyway, Anders is _not_ a skeptic. He wasn’t back then and he isn’t now.

Either way, the day Varric hired me to manage his campaign, I went in for a meeting straight away and found him with a messy ponytail. I almost walked straight back out.

“If you’re going to run for an office—a serious one,” I said. “You’re going to need to make some changes.”

He was resistant, of course. He argued that it shouldn’t matter… and it _shouldn’t_ , but it does.

I often wonder if he resents the changes I’ve made to his public persona. Trying to put someone into a box where he doesn’t fit is liable to make him cagey—I should know…

 

Nevertheless, he looks happy to see me tonight and his hair _does_ look better short. In fact, without his mangy beard, he almost looks beautiful here in the dim light of desk lamps and long shadows from the nondescript bathroom.

“What are you working on?” I ask. As I’ve entered the room, I notice he has manuscript pages covering almost every surface. He’s not a _neat_ person, by any stretch of the imagination, but I’ve learned that there’s a sort of system at play in almost every mess he makes.

“It’s a speech… sort of.”

I find myself frowning, even though he looks incredibly sincere, standing there shrugging at me like a kid. “Your speech for tomorrow has already been approved by the staff… are you… having second thoughts?”

He bites his lip and turns away from me, toward the window. The city lights turn his face a sickly blue-green and I can see him grimace in profile.

“I don’t know, Dorian…” He wraps his arms around his chest and digs the fingers of each hand into his elbows. It’s a thing I’ve seen him do a million times before—every time he doesn’t think I’ve _heard_ him. “I just don’t know if this stands for anything… I mean, why am I even doing this if everything I’m _allowed_ to say is filtered and edited?” Then he turns, “I mean, honestly, Dorian, I’m here to change things; that’s the only reason I agreed to—” He looks around the room, suddenly glaring. “...all this…”

For a moment, I think he’ll say more, but he seems to swallow it. I watch the words slide down his throat and settle into a nauseating ball in his abdomen. It’s amazing how well I know him now.

“Anders…”

He looks up at me like he’s going to argue, but I know how to handle him.

“Anders, you’re doing this so that you have a chance to actually say what you need to say when it can _count_ ,” I explain. He rolls his eyes because I’ve said some iteration of these words dozens of times since this all began, but he doesn’t argue. “Tell me why you’re here.”

He pouts, letting his eyes drift down to the carpet.

“Anders?”

“I’m not a child, Dorian,” he snaps.

“Then stop acting like one,” I argue, taking a step forward. In another circumstance, it _could_ be construed as aggressive, but it isn’t here. He trusts my judgment; he values my insight... I know he does. “If you alienate the voters now, you’ll never have a chance to sit at the table in Denerim… not a _hope_ of actually making a difference… and Anders,” I tip my head down enough to make eye contact. “I know that if you have the chance… you _will_ —the whole world is going to change… and it can all start here.”

He purses his lips. I’m not sure if it’s conscious or not, but he looks like he’s terrified and inspired all at once. It looks like something I’ve rarely felt… like the edge of hope.

“So Anders… go out there tomorrow and deliver the speech the team prepped for you… and let it be the introduction you need to get to that congressional seat,” I say. “Then we’ll have new speeches and they’ll be everything you’ve planned.” I pause. We’re just a foot apart, but the expression he’s wearing is hard to read and I know he’s easily spooked, so I wait—silent and poised.

“Okay, Dorian,” he says finally. “You’re right. I know you’re right.”

“Of course I am,” I laugh and mean to step back, but my feet seem stuck to the floor. A magnet in my chest won’t let me leave. “That’s what you pay me for, after all…” I add, but it’s forced. Something’s happening.

“Yeah. I guess I do…” he draws his lower lip into his mouth and lets a canine hook into its edge.

...and for a split second, it feels like my entire life can be summed up in that one expression: a tentatively sanguine, provocative look that defies any one mold… something that no one can really own, but neither could they deny it’s there. It’s freedom _and_ captivity—hope _and_ fear.

As quickly as it comes, it leaves again. Time catches up with itself and I’m soon toddling back to my room, confident that he’ll give the speech we planned, but I don’t forget. In fact, I find myself looking at my own reflection wondering if I’ve ever managed to harness that much meaning in a single look… and if I have, was it genuine?

 _No_. I’m Dorian Pavus and when it comes to matters like these, I’m a lot of things, but ingenuous isn’t one of them. I was raised to be _charming_ , not sincere.

* * *

 


	2. Influential Mentors, Sympathetic Journalists

* * *

The following morning, I wake up before my alarm goes off. I’m not prone to nervousness, but I _do_ harbor anxiety for things I really care about… and, as surprising as it is, I really do care about this.

In college, I studied anthropology. I was endlessly fascinated by the way people work in groups—the intrigue, the scandal, the evolution… even the love. Despite everything I’ve seen, I still think we have a propensity to be great…

Either way, anthropology isn’t the path to any kind of career and I had an influential mentor who encouraged me to pursue politics. Specifically, he said, ‘don’t waste that face on a bunch of dead people.’ I was considering going on a three-month archeological trip at the time and he offered me an internship in a senator’s office instead.

I never went on the trip. I often wonder how different my life might be if I had. I certainly wouldn’t be _here_ —lying on an unfamiliar bed, wondering if someone else’s speech will go well. My life would be a lot less stressful, certainly… but… I wouldn’t have met Anders… and… he might change everything—bring us a little closer to that ideal I keep clinging to...

A knock on the door and I’m up, finding pants and pushing my hair into place. On my way to the door, I skin the back of my knuckles on a sharp piece of splintered desk and swear under my breath.

“Yes?”

“You’re not dressed yet?” asks Varric. He pushes past me into the room in an act of privacy invasion I’ve come to expect from him.

“The press conference isn’t for another…” I look over at the clock. I have to squint without my contacts, but I can just barely make out the numbers. “Six hours? Dear god, Varric, what are you doing here so early?”

“We have to push the timeline up,” Varric says. He looks uncharacteristically twitchy this morning. “Rutherford’s camp has arranged to speak today too; we need to beat them to the punch.”

“Today?” I ask. Already, I’m crafting several strategies—most of them involve convincing Anders to get out of bed. He’s stubborn when he wants to be.

“Yeah… and if my sources are right, he’s going to come out in support of legislation to mandate the use of Meredith Corp’s new tech.”

“Mandate?” I parrot. “Why?”

Varric rolls his eyes. “If you invented a detection service that could be used indiscriminately on every person, living and in utero, wouldn’t _you_ push it?”

I shrug.

“Dollar signs, Sparkler…” he laughs. “It always comes back to money—especially in medicine.”

“Yeah… I guess it does,” I say. It’s disappointing, really. Whenever I see examples of greed like this, it reminds me of why Anders’ campaign is so important. He’s fighting against this kind of thing. “I’ll go talk to him. What time do we need to hit the stage?”

Varric looks at his watch. “Within the hour.”

I puff out a breath and walk toward the closet. “Let me change and I’ll go get him.” Upon opening the closet door, I notice my hand is still bleeding. _Damn it._ “Did you already call that Theirin guy?” He’s one of the few journalists who has been seemingly on our side since the beginning. It’s good to have allies.

“Yeah, already done. See you downstairs, Sparkler.”

 

* * *

 

Down the hall at Anders’ room, it’s a stark contrast from last night. I can tell from how still it is that he’s dead asleep. I knock tentatively.

 _Nothing_.

“Anders?” I call, knocking again.

“...what?”

I laugh; his voice sounds gravelly. I’ve heard it like this a few times as we’ve traveled from hotel to hotel, but maybe not to this degree. “It’s Dorian. Let me in?”

Some unintelligible grumbling heralds the click of two locks and the door opens, just a foot.

“Thank you,” I say. The room is very dark, save a beam of intrusive light peeking between the blackout curtains. Anders avoids it, I notice. “Listen, we need to push the timeline up today…”

He blinks at me, looking cross.

“...and nothing is _wrong_ ,” I preempt. “It’s just a timing thing with your opponent. We want to make sure we get out in front of a Meredith Corp announcement.”

At that, he looks suddenly awake. “What are they going to announce?”

“They’re releasing new genetic marker testing technology… to detect birth defects… predict health issues… that sort of thing,” I say.

“You mean to weed undesirables out of the gene pool...” he says flatly.

“It’s not…” I cross to sit next to him on the edge of his bed. “No one is proposing that, but we need to make sure we’re ready with our response…”

“If no one is proposing that then why do we need a response?”

I sigh. He’s right; he’s been predicting something like this since before anyone even knew his name. It was only a matter of time. The movement has grown, even though it’s based on _nothing_. So what if a few wacko-scientists proved the genetic code is a little different in people whose families supposedly were magical once? It’s not as if anyone can _do_ anything; no one is conjuring bolts of lightning with their mind or moving things with the flick of a wrist. It’s just _propaganda_ —fear mongering. But people will believe all sorts of insane things if they’re whispered in just the right way. This movement is a perfect example of that.

 

About ten years ago, when I was just finishing graduate school, I had a boyfriend who scared me. Not at first—in the beginning, he was kind and funny and the sex was great. It was all very casual and normal for a couple of twenty-two year olds.

Then one day, everything changed. He came to my door in the middle of the night—banged on it until I woke up. When I saw him, he was soaked with sweat and breathing shallowly.

“What are you doing here?” I asked. “All you all right?”

He stepped inside, eyes darting back and forth. “My roommate; he’s one of them.”

I squinted. “One of them? Who is _them_?”

“The mages,” he whispered.

I wanted to laugh; it was all so ridiculous. For a split second, I thought this whole thing could be chalked up to a practical joke gone too far, but his expression darkened even further.

“I saw him do something… outside our apartment…” he continued. “Killed a bird and drained its blood.”

“ _What_?”

“Then he… he… started a fire with his bare hands.”

I couldn’t help rolling my eyes—how _ridiculous_ —but he wouldn’t be dissuaded.

“I _know_ what he is… and I’m going to tell someone!” he shouted eventually.

I tried to reason with him—to explain what he _thought_ he saw in rational terms. I even asked if he’d been drinking, which did _not_ go over well, but eventually, I settled for getting him out of my place and calling a friend to come pick me up. We graduated a few weeks later and I never saw him again.

 

Back then, I considered that whole episode a case of undiagnosed psychological pathology, but over the years there have been gumblings: sightings of unexplained phenomena… meetings in secret. But like so many things that don’t affect me directly, I ignored them. I stuck to what I was good at and grew my career, moved to Ferelden and started a new life. And some days, I even forgot that terrified, angry boy in my Tevinter apartment.

...but I shouldn’t have. A good anthropologist knows that forgetting the past is the first step on the path to repeating it.

 

With that in mind, I refocus.

“Anders, everything’s going to be fine,” I say. “This is just an extension of Rutherford’s greed. He’ll do anything for corporate backing, you know that.”

Anders nods, but he won’t look at me. His eyes are passing over the same section of carpet over and over.

“Anders? Are you all right?” I ask, leaning down to look at him.

He licks his lip and eventually bites it. It reminds me of what he looked like last night, but all of it seems wrong. I decide to wait him out—sometimes he needs space, too, but all I can give him today is the tiniest slice of time; there’s too much riding on this.

“Dorian, I have to tell you something,” he says finally.

“Okay, anything.”

He turns his head until we’re almost nose to nose. We’ve been sitting here long enough that I’ve adjusted to the dark and I can see the lines around his eyes in perfect detail. He looks older, suddenly.

“I’m one of them,” he says.

I raise an eyebrow. “What?”

“One of them… of the mages,” he rasps, voice shaking.

“Anders, don’t be ridiculous,” I say. I’m having a flashback to the first part of that conversation with my old boyfriend, though. This might be the last second before he actually loses his mind and I’m forced to never see him again. In the same moment, it occurs to me that I _care_ if I never see him again—beyond what it would mean for my career. I don’t have time to fully analyze the pit in my stomach, though, because before I know what’s happening, he’s pulling my hand into his across our knees and looking deep into my eyes.

“Dorian… I’m one of them,” he repeats.

...and then everything changes. Suddenly, the room is full of a soft blue light. It seems to come from inside and without—its source a mystery I can’t understand.

“Stay still,” he says quietly.

My hand feels warm, and although it’s bright to look right at it now—blue and shimmering—I can’t help it. With each passing second, the skin of my knuckles fills back in. A shiver runs up my spine and I almost pull my hand away, but Anders grabs it tighter.

“What are you…?” I sputter, trying to get my hand back, screaming _stop_ in my mind, but staring dumbstruck as the last bit of skin appears—no trace of scab or scar—and the light and heat vanish as quickly as they came.

Several expletives and accusations erupt in the crocodilian vestiges of my brain, but I suppress them. Instead, I sit stock still on the edge of the bed, gaping at my fingers. They’re _perfect_.

“Dorian, we need to stop this push; it can’t become a law,” he says quietly. “I might be able to hide this, but there are others who can’t… and they shouldn’t have to.”

I nod, looking back up into his face.

“Dorian, please.”

And although it’s mad, although I’ve lost all faith in my senses and my beliefs and in how the world works, I agree.

* * *

 


	3. Legislative Changes

* * *

“Dorian?” calls someone. It’s a voice I know, but I’m so frazzled, I can’t place it. I whirl my head around and see its origin.

“Oh. Hi, Al…” I manage to smile, even though my brain is full of fireworks. In the last hour and a half I succeeded in getting Anders dressed and ready to give a speech, but he wouldn’t tell me what he is going to say. Normally, I wouldn’t let that go, but in light of what just happened, I seem to have lost my voice. I can’t stop running my fingers over that new patch of skin—no trace of a scar.

“Can I get a preview of what your candidate is planning to say today?” asks Alistair. He’s standing on the other side of a security barricade, leaning gingerly on a temporary support post. Frankly, it looks like he could crush it with just ten more pounds of force, but he looks so _nice_ that it undercuts how strong he probably is. Journalists are just one step away from vultures normally, but Alistair might prove to be a little different. I don’t know him well yet, but I have an idea that he might do well as a press secretary once we win. Of course, everything has gone sideways this morning, so nothing is assured anymore.

“I think you’ll have to wait for your sound bite like everyone else,” I say glibly. “Besides, I have a feeling you like to work for it.”

He pulls out his notebook, pretending to write, and says, “Mr. Pavus is a brilliant political mind, but does he spend too much time flirting with the press? Could it have an impact on his candidate’s chances in the polls come Firstfall?”

Just then, someone yells behind me. “Mr. Pavus, you better take a look at this!”

Alistair shrugs at me. “Never a dull moment.”

He turns back toward the rest of the press and disappears, but I don’t wait to see him go. I’m already rushing over to the aid who called me. I can’t remember her name, but she’s one of the longest-running ones. Her presence predates my own, actually.

“What is it?” I ask.

She stares back at a screen over her shoulder and turns up the volume. It’s Cullen, flanked by his campaign manager, Raleigh Samson, a surly man with a deeply receding hairline and bloodshot eyes, and his wife, Icis Lavellan. They’re looking into the camera in a way I find unnerving, but I can’t tell if it’s actually them or _me_. I’m holding myself together with the mental equivalent of safety pins—a long string of commands that amount to, ‘smile,’ ‘shake hands,’ ‘don’t be weird.’

Nevertheless, looking directly into the camera before a press conference starts is a rookie mistake. The time a candidate spends standing behind the podium is a golden opportunity: joke with the press, touch someone’s shoulder, laugh… seem _human_. Instead, Cullen is _staring_ like some kind of automaton.

“What is he _doing_?” asks someone. I notice that the clump of us has grown—almost the whole team is standing here now.

“His _programming_ doesn’t include pre and post, I guess,” jokes someone else.

Then finally, an announcer introduces him and a hush falls over the audience—here and on his side.

“Thank you for coming,” says Cullen. He’s smiling now, which is almost weirder than what he was doing before. “We all know why we’re here: because today marks an advance in medical science that could jettison us into the future.”

My whole staff seems to be collectively holding their breath.

“Imagine a future where we detect disease years before the first symptom,” continues Cullen. “A world where ‘genetically inherited’ only applies to the color of your eyes and not your risk of cancer.” He pauses and looks over the crowd for a calculated moment. It’s like something I’d have Anders do, but he’s _terrible_ at it. I would laugh if it didn’t feel so ominous.

“Imagine a future where we’re no longer _victims_ of our DNA.” Then Cullen smiles. “I’d like to introduce the scientific mind of the century and CEO of the company that has made our future so bright: Dr. Meredith Stannard.” He steps aside and claps for show while Meredith takes the stage.

“Good afternoon,” she says coldly. Her hair is so stiffly arranged that it doesn’t move a centimeter, even as wind whips past the microphone. “Thank you for being here. Today is a landmark on our journey toward longevity and health—things I’ve been working toward my whole life. With the backing of the future Congressman, and legislative changes here in Ferelden and abroad, we are about to change the world.”

The audience claps; flashbulbs flare.

Samson steps forward to address the crowd. “Dr. Stannard and Mr. Rutherford will now take a few questions. Yes?”

“Thank you,” says someone off screen. “Mr. Rutherford, what are your plans to use this technology in a political realm? What kind of legislation will you be proposing?”

Cullen steps forward and tips the mic up toward his mouth. His lip curls before he speaks, which is a habit I’ve seen on his face before—one I would have trained out of him if he were my candidate. It makes him look insincere.

“The details have yet to be worked out, but I am going to support any bill that includes widespread use of this technology,” he says, nodding to someone else.

“Which diseases does this actually detect?”

Cullen looks at Meredith and Samson briefly in turn. It’s so quick that most people wouldn’t have even noticed it, but _I_ do—he’s making sure he doesn’t say something wrong; he has to stick to a script. “There are still patents pending at this stage, but from what I’ve seen, this is going to save a lot of lives.”

Another reporter pipes up, “Would you be _mandating_ the use of this technology?”

Cullen looks at Meredith briefly, then smiles. “Mandating is a bit harsh of a way of phrase it. We’d be implementing usage in doctor’s offices and hospitals as a regular form of screening—consider it the same as routine blood work or prenatal ultrasound.”

The same reporter interrupts, “You’re not worried that your constituents will find this _invasive_?”

At that, Meredith steps forward. “What one person finds invasive, we consider _necessary_. Progress sometimes requires change and if we are going to prevent disease, ease suffering, and move ourselves into the modern era, this kind of genetic screening and diagnosis is our best chance.”

The crowd erupts with shouts. Everyone has more questions, but Samson waves them off. “That’s all the time we have for today. Thank you for coming out.” And just like that, they disperse. The news reel picks up with rehashing of the questions and comments on the mood in the press, but I stop listening. Now it’s time to get to work. I need to find Anders.

 

* * *

 

 

Backstage, at _our_ press conference, it’s quiet. Anders is sitting on the edge of a rickety-looking stool.

“So we missed it, huh?” he says when I get close.

I shrug. “It wasn’t much of a press conference. I don’t think Cullen’s automated responses won him any votes.”

Anders smiles at me. “Always the optimist…”

I squint at him. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

He holds up his phone. “I watched it. Yeah, he was a machine, but… people like that hardline stuff… even what Meredith said…”

I pull another stool in front of his and sit. We’re almost knee to knee, but I want to talk to him frankly without being overheard. “Maybe some will… but, Anders, this is our chance to come out in favor of human rights.”

He shakes his head. “We’re going to sound like nutbags if we say that early detection isn’t a good thing.”

“Well, we’re not going to say _that_ ,” I say, smiling. “We’re going to say that detecting diseases is important, but that every individual has the right to choose what happens to their own body. We’re going to oppose anything that forces people to disclose their personal health information and we’re going to _resist_. That’s the theme; got it?”

Anders nods to me. Then he takes a little breath like he’s going to keep talking. When he doesn’t, I lift an eyebrow at him.

“I’m…. a little worried about you,” he says. “Are you _all right_ …? After…”

I nod once, quickly. “Yes. I’m fine.”

He inclines his head slightly. He doesn’t believe me, clearly. He shouldn’t; _I’m lying_.

“We can talk about that later; we don’t have time before the conference,” I say. _And I’m not ready_.

 

When Anders takes the stage, he does it with an ease I’ve rarely seen in a candidate—or anyone else, actually. He looks like he belongs there. It’s actually one of the first things I noticed about him when we met and one of the things that convinced me to take the job.

 

* * *

 

 

The morning of our first meeting, after I got over the shock of his appearance, we sat down together in a coffee shop to talk strategy. The place was crowded and smelled like burned coffee in a way I really liked. We sat in the corner and looked right into each other’s eyes. It’s a thing I do when I want to get to know someone quickly: employ an unnerving level of eye contact and ask a million questions. Curiosity is something I’ve always been blessed (or cursed?) with, but in this arena it’s definitely useful. The media is going to be more inquisitive than I am and I need to see how any potential candidate reacts.

“So, what’s your background?” I asked.

He shifted his posture until he could rest his chin on a fist. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen someone look comfortable under pressure, of course. Politicians are trained on that kind of thing since day one, but Anders wasn’t any kind of a politician, and he didn’t look like he was _trying_ at all.

“I was a medic in the Ferelden army,” he explained. “I did two tours in the Nevarran war and saw… well, I saw enough to know that something needed to change.”

“What things specifically?”

Then he smiled in this way I’ll never forget—like he was really thinking about the way things _could_ be. “We need to make the world a safer place for everyone.”

I laughed. “That’s a tall order.”

“Yeah… but it’s something I can work toward in my small way,” he argued. “And if I can spread that to my friends and they spread it to their friends, there’s no telling how far it will go.”

...and I knew right then that, for the first time in my career, I had a candidate I could believe in.

 

So today, when I follow him to the stage in front of dozens of skeptical journalists, I know he’ll do the right thing… because whatever he says, it will be true.

 

* * *

 

 

“Meredith Corp says that we’re slaves to our DNA,” Anders begins, “Well, I say we’re slaves to policies that force us to disclose our health information. _I_ say we’re slaves to corporate greed. If Dr. Stannard and Mr. Rutherford want to tell us what they might die of or what their children might inherit, that’s their prerogative, but I resist the idea that anything detectable is certain to happen and I resist the notion that any company as big as Meredith Corp can be considered utterly above reproach.”

The crowd rolls with whispers.

“They say they can’t tell us what they’re testing for because of patents. If this is truly something we need—as routine as blood work—let it go through the peer review process like every other medical procedure. Let us decide for ourselves if it’s something we want. Informed consent is universally expected in medicine; surely this technology doesn’t supercede that.”

Then he pauses and looks out over the crowd of reporters. Standing here, behind the podium on his left, I can see his face only in profile, but I know he’s doing this about a thousand times better than Cullen did. He’s relatable; he’s kind. He seems fair and just and, above all else, _reasonable_. This is his moment.

“We’ll take a few questions,” I say, leaning forward.

“What are your plans for if you’re elected this fall? Are you going to work actively against this proposition?”

Anders smiles confidently. “I’m going to stand against anything that favors profit over individual rights. Period.”

People clap; someone cheers. _It’s happening; he’s doing it_.

“Will your campaign pivot on this issue? Are you going to be changing tack in response to this announcement?”

Anders shakes his head. “This is exactly what I’ve been campaigning about this whole time, actually. Now we just have a specific example of what I’ve been saying all along: if corporations are allowed to continue unchecked—if they’re above regulation—we are going to see a steady decline in the rights of individual citizens. It’s time for the rest of us to band together and _demand_ that we be heard.”

Hands raise; reporters shout, but I know that’s the sound bite we need to end today on, so I step forward. “Thank you very much for being here. That’s all we have time for today, but you can direct follow up questions to our staff and we’ll get back to you as soon as we can. Justice doesn’t sleep.” I laugh and so do several reporters. “Thank you again.”

* * *

 

 


	4. Secret Handshakes of the Magical Variety

* * *

“Hey,” says Anders. He leans against the doorframe of my hotel room and smiles. He looks almost sheepish, which is funny because he can be so demonstrative when he wants to be. I guess everyone has the propensity to be different in public and private— _my_ internal monologue certainly isn’t what I let people see.

“Do you need something?” I ask.

He smiles. “To talk to you.”

“All right. Come in.”

I’m reticent as I open the door more widely, though. We’ve been in this situation a thousand times before, but he seems different. Maybe _I’m_ different too.

He sits in an ugly upholstered chair just to the left of the bed and smiles up at me. “You were right about the press conference. It _was_ our chance.”

“ _Your_ chance, really,” I correct. “You did a beautiful job and you didn’t need the rest of us at all.” I sit on the corner of my bed closest to him and rest my elbows on my knees, leaning forward.

“I certainly needed _you_ ,” he says.

That feeling of magnetism from last night is back. I mean to lean away, but don’t.

“And… I need to know… what you’re thinking about all this,” he adds. It’s quiet—barely louder than a whisper.

I’m not in the habit of being silent, typically. In fact, I tend to think I have a command of language that has helped me in virtually every arena of my life. But right now… sitting here with Anders… I’m not sure what to say. In the hours that have passed since he showed me what he can do, I’ve almost managed to convince myself that it wasn’t what it looked like—that he’s somehow tricking me or that I had a momentary break with reality.

“I’ll be fine,” I say finally. “I’m good at adapting to things…”

He barks a laugh. “Adapting? Dorian, you can’t _manage_ this like it’s a media blitz.”

“I—” but I don’t have words for this.

Eventually, Anders runs a hand over his jaw and looks at me more poignantly. “This isn’t something you can just ignore, Dorian…”

“I know that,” I say quickly. “I’m not ignoring it… but… honestly, I don’t see what it has to do with me. You have some kind of… skill…?” I swallow around that last word; Anders stifles a little scoff. “...but it doesn’t impact the campaign; does it?”

He narrows his eyes. “Of course it does… I mean, maybe not _directly_ … but now that you know… there are some other ways you could help me.”

“ _Other_ ways?”

“Listen, there’s somewhere I have to be tonight… on the other side of town,” says Anders. “To check in on some other people who can do things… they’re scared—lots of them are just kids—and… they have nowhere else to go.”

“Tonight?” I start to back up. For a mad second, I consider running to the door and blocking him in until morning, but I don’t actually move as soon as my brain catches up with itself.

“Come with me?” he asks.

“Anders… this sounds potentially dangerous; what if someone sees you?”

He scoffs, flipping his head like he used to when he had long hair. It’s a habit that he hasn’t managed to break yet. “I’m going with or without you,” he says. “If you come, maybe I won’t get into as much trouble.”

“I doubt that.”

Even though I think this whole thing is absurd, I smile when he smiles at me. I can’t help it. He’s endearing in a way I’m completely unfamiliar with.

“Dorian… please,” he says again.

           

I’ve never been one to acquiesce to begging. In fact, the deeper someone digs in, the harder I resist, under normal circumstances. It was certainly true in my youth.

I grew up in a rather unusual household. My parents, Halward and Aquinea, both loved me… but in the way that they loved our country home, our set of antique dishes, and our host of live-in help. They loved me for what I _represented_. They loved me as an _accessory_. And now that I’m grown, I don’t hold that against them. They were thrust into a loveless marriage and expected to _acquire_ … procreation is the logical conclusion, I suppose.

I only wish I’d had the chance to tell them that before my father died and my mother fell ill… As a child, I didn’t understand how societies worked—I wasn’t yet embedded with politicians—and so I thought that my parents were purposely cruel… needlessly ruthless.

I acted out in a variety of obvious ways: I bought expensive things on their credit cards. I got kicked out of boarding school—twice—and most disturbingly (to them) I became rather promiscuous in very public ways… an episode under a set of bleachers comes to mind…

I wonder now if they ever knew that putting me into a mold where I didn’t fit—making it clear that  I’m not the son they expected—only turned me into the person I am today… that is to say, the person who left… the person who loves his country, but helps shape the government of another one. I was forged in the fire of their disappointment and I emerged someone new… someone who does what fulfills his own needs… not what expectation dictates.

 

And so it is with a fair amount of confusion that I find myself following Anders into an alley on the other side of town, _against_ my own best interests and every instinct I have.

“Just over here,” he whispers, pointing to a slip no wider than a sidewalk.

The night is unseasonably warm and it smells like ripe garbage, more so when we turn the corner. I push my nose and mouth into the crook of my arm and breathe through the fabric to avoid gagging.

“Are you sure this is the way?” I ask. It comes out muffled; Anders smirks at me over his shoulder.

“Right here,” he says, knocking on a nondescript metal door.

It opens an inch and someone gruffly asks for a password. I assume it will be some idiotic word or phrase: _redbud_ or _tropical island_ or _watermelon juice_ … but it isn’t. Instead, Anders puts his hand out, palm up, and conjures an orb of blue light, so small and smooth, it looks like freshly blown glass. The door swings open.

“Anders?” Several people rush over to us at once. Upon closer inspection, some of them are elves, some are human. There’s even a qunari or two standing in the corner… but all of them are young—children, actually.

“Hi!” says Anders, patting a little boy on the head and smiling at a girl with a mouthful of braces.

“We saw you on TV,” says the boy.

“You were great,” the metal-mouthed girl adds.

“Thank you,” says Anders. Then he smiles at me over his shoulder. “It was actually because of my friend Dorian, though; I couldn’t have done it without him.”

When the children look up at me, it’s like they’re seeing me for the first time. They appraise me with equal parts admiration and skepticism.

One of the littlest ones—who barely comes up to Anders’ waist—openly glares at me. I’m about to say something to soften my entrance when someone else speaks over my shoulder.

“We were wondering when you’d show up,” says the newcomer.

From my vantage point in the center of the room, I watch two things happen at once: Anders’ face changes—from his usual tired, but hopeful, smile, to something else… something alive and free. At the same time, the children clear a path between Anders and the other person—a sea parting in reaction to divine intervention.

Anders opens his arms and smiles. “Dorian, this is Hawke,” he says, without looking at me. “They take care of the kids here… look out for them.” Then he smiles at Hawke, almost looking bashful. “It’s good to see you.”

Hawke nods to him and then turns to look at me. They don’t smile, but there’s something in their expression that tells me I’ve been provisionally accepted. “Come on; I’ll show you around,” they say.

 

During the course of Hawke’s tour, I start to have flashbacks to college. I was a Campus Guide during my university days—the president of the whole association, actually—and that included leading prospective students from classroom to classroom and showing donors where their money was spent on campus. It was in those tours that I first learned how persuasive I could be—how good I was at reading my audience and crafting exactly the right tour for each occasion.

Anders, by contrast, was not good at that when I first met him. He alternated between two extremes, which I eventually categorized as ‘oversharing’ and ‘hermit-crabbing’. I’ll never forget the first time I caught him working on his book.

Oh, I haven’t mentioned the book yet… Anders has been working on a manuscript of sorts for the better part of a decade. He has over a thousand handwritten pages, jammed into an accordian file, in an order I can’t begin to understand. These days, I think of that folder as a tether to his past, but when we first met—within the first month, actually—I walked in on him working on it.

“What are you doing?” I asked, leaning over his shoulder.

He grabbed the pages and tried to hide them from me, like I’d caught him looking at pornography.

“Whoa… what _is_ all this?” I backed up, palms raised, but I didn’t stop trying to read the words. It wasn’t possible—his handwriting was (and is) terrible.

“Nothing,” he said, glaring at me.

“It looks like something—a very long, messy something…” I said cooly.

Then I waited. I watched him take control of himself again—he blinked until his eyes lost focus somewhere on my lapel and swallowed pointedly.

“You know, Anders,” I said quietly, “If we’re going to work together in this capacity, you need to start trusting me.”

His eyes snapped up—not quite a glare, but something fierce and wild, like an animal in captivity.

“I’m here for you, you know,” I reiterated. “So whatever you’re working on… let me help you with it.”

Then he laughed—loud and surprisingly genuine-sounding. “You can’t help me with this…” he said.

I smiled. “Oh really? Try me.”

He shook his head and sighed, pushing a hand through his hair—this was two weeks before I finally got him to cut it. “I get it, Dorian… we need to trust each other…”

I nodded.

“And I’ll work on it… but… this isn’t something I’m ready to share with anyone,” he added.

There was no point in arguing with him and since that day, I have never asked him about the book again, although he doesn’t hide it from me anymore. I find him with a red pen in his hand and a pencil behind his ear more nights than not.

 

It occurs to me now that maybe that book has something to do with _this_ —maybe all his secrets are connected. I also realize—too late—that I haven’t been listening to Hawke’s tour and it’s over.

“Thanks,” I say, extending my hand.

Hawke looks at it skeptically, but eventually takes it. “If Anders says you’re all right, I guess you’re welcome back here anytime…”

“Yeah, he’s all right…” Anders says, smiling. He pulls Hawke into a hug that results in hitting each other’s backs. It’s rather rough, but I can tell it’s also kind—tender, even. Something leaps in my chest at that—something I don’t dare name.

“Are you leaving already?” asks the girl with braces.

Anders looks down at her gently. “Yeah, unfortunately. I’ll be back as soon as I can, though… take care of all the little ones for me, will you?” Then he kneels in front of her and they extend their palms fingertip to fingertip. In the space between the skin, an arc of light erupts. I can’t tell which of them produced it, but it seems to grow the longer they both look at it.

“Perfect,” says Anders eventually. “You’re getting good at that.”

“I’ve been practicing,” says the girl.

It’s in that moment that I realize Anders isn’t just the best candidate I’ve ever known—he might also be one of the best _people_.

* * *

 

 


	5. Archons of the Distant Past

* * *

“Dorian! The new polling numbers are in!”

I rush through the bullpen and grab a stack of reports out of an aid’s hand. We’re up in every district that counts, save two. Those are the battlegrounds—the places where Rutherford’s camp has spent an enormous amount of time campaigning. Nevertheless, the news is good… and just one month out from the election, we’re sitting in a better position than I thought we would be.

“Good news?”

I turn to see someone smiling at me. It’s Alistair. “Yes, actually. We’re up across the board.”

He leans on the edge of a desk and pulls out his pen. “So how is that affecting morale? Any planned conferences or celebratory announcements?”

I shake my head. “Come on, Alistair… you must know by now that I wouldn’t give anything away, even if we _were_ planning something.”

Alistair laughs, leaning closer to me across the desk. “Even for your _favorite_ reporter?”

I don’t want to blush, but he’s making it hard. He has these dimples that I feel like I dreamed into existence. “Not a chance,” I say, folding my arms over my chest in feigned nonchalance.

He sighs. “All right, Dorian, I had to try…” He stands and flattens a wrinkle in his pants, but he doesn’t leave right away. In fact, he gets even a little closer to me. “So, uh… if you don’t want to talk about the campaign, maybe you’d want to do something else? ...any night this week?”

“Mr. Theirin, are you trying to get me to _fraternize_ with the enemy?”

“We’re hardly at odds. You’ve seen the pieces I’ve published,” he says. Then he waits, staring at me with a lopsided grin on his face. “ _Come on_ … just meet me somewhere—one drink and if you hate it, you can leave.”

“Fine. Saturday—meet me at Cromwell’s downtown.”

“Great.” He grabs his coat and smoothes his hair on his way toward the door. “It’s a date.”

 

* * *

 

 

On Saturday, I’m calmer than I thought I would be, considering how long it’s been since I went on a date with anyone. That might seem dichotomous to some of the other stories I’ve told, but it’s sort of in line with how I live my life—that is to say, _without attachments_. I’m not sure if it stems from that period of promiscuity in my youth—a phase I didn’t seem to grow out of properly—or some deep-seated fear of vulnerability, but it’s true.

Nevertheless, I’m feeling pretty positive tonight. In fact, the whole process of getting ready seems to enhance that feeling. I look at myself in the bathroom mirror appraisingly. I’m about to leave, but a knock on the door disrupts me.

“Come in,” I call, still eyeing my reflection.

“Dorian?” Anders rounds the corner into the bathroom, looking nervous, but when he sees me, his expression changes. “What are you doing?”

“Getting _ready_ … what does it look like?” I snap. I feel defensive, suddenly, but I can’t understand why.

“For what?”

I bristle. “A date…”

“Oh…” Anders seems to shrink. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?” I ask.

He shrugs. “I’ll come back later.”

I know I should leave it; the look on his face suggests that whatever he was about to tell me is serious and will, most likely, make me late, but I can’t quell the surge of curiosity.

“No. What were you going to say?”

Anders shakes his head. “It’s about Hawke…”

In the month since Anders first told me his secret—since we visited that back alley hovel—we haven’t spoken about it. I’m not sure why, actually. I expected him to bring it up every time we were alone, but with the polls trending up and two debates between then and now, we never seemed to have the chance. I was actually sort of relieved.

“What has happened?” I ask. The skin of my fists feels tight as my fingers curl inward of their own accord. Whether or not I’m willing to admit it, my body has decided that I’m stressed.

“It’s nothing… they just need some help—there’s a new kid at the house…” He looks at me strangely for a second. I think he’s preempting a joke I was about to make—something like ‘that’s not what _I’d_ call a house.’ Maybe he knows me as well as I know him. “...but it can wait,” he concludes.

“Why did you come to me?” I ask.

“He’s um… he’s from Tevinter; he just arrived and he’s having kind of a hard time adjusting, I guess. I thought you might be able to connect with him…”

I’m not particularly familiar with children. It’s not that I don’t like them; in fact, I had this idea once that I would have some of my own… but then my life happened the way it did and that seemed less of a possibility… so I resigned myself to _not_ having them. And that’s fine—I’m rather happy only planning for myself. Some might say I’m self-centered… and I guess I am, but I’m okay with it. Kids just don’t factor into my life anymore. Nevertheless, when Anders asks if I can help him, I don’t even hesitate.

“What do you need me to do?” I ask.

“Nothing. You’re going out.” He gestures vaguely to my reflection in the bathroom mirror.

“Not anymore.”

He smiles at me and I can’t help but smile back. Every time we talk, it’s starting to feel like we’re sharing secrets—it’s a form of exclusivity that feels like being _known_ … and I’m even less familiar with _that_ than I am with kids.

“Let me make one phone call?” I ask, grabbing my phone off the counter. “I’ll meet you in the lobby in ten.”

He nods and slides out almost noiselessly; I only barely hear the lock click.

 

I pick up my phone and try to think of an excuse to give Alistair, but before I have a chance, my phone buzzes against my hand. It’s _him_.

“Are you calling to cancel last minute?” I ask, by way of greeting.

“How did you know?”

“Because we’re both in politics… I was just about to call _you_ to cancel,” I admit.

He laughs. “Well, we tried?”

Now I’m laughing too… and I can see my expression in the mirror—I look like I actually mean it. “Can I get a rain-check?”

“Yes, definitely.” Then he pauses. I can tell he isn’t ready to hang up. “So what’s keeping you tonight?”

I scoff. “I should have known; a reporter until the end… You’re the one who canceled first. I don’t think you get to know what I’m doing.”

Then he laughs again. “C’mon… I’ll tell you what I’m doing if you tell me.” He clears his throat. “And it’s something you’re really going to want to know… or… your candidate will.”

My brow knits. “What are you talking about?”

“Do we have a deal, Mr. Pavus?”

“Fine. Spill.”

“I just got a tip that Meredith Corp is about to make a big announcement tomorrow morning—in Orlais, just over the border,” he explains. “It has something to do with that detection software. I guess the patents came through and they’re ready to start rolling it out.”

“Why are they doing that in Orlais?” I ask.

“Beats me… they probably want to dictate what masks people can wear to their stupid parties based on some genetic marker.” He laughs and eventually sighs. “Anyway, my boss wants me to cover it, so I’m about to get on a train.”

“Well, good luck.”

“Hey… don’t hang up; you promised,” Alistair interrupts.

“ _Oh_ … fine.” I clear my throat. “I’m about to go help Anders with something—nothing nearly as juicy as what you’re talking about. He just has to have a meeting with an old friend of his.”

“And what is your function with this old friend? Does he need a chaperone?” jokes Alistair.

“Maybe…” I equivocate, although I don’t like the way the joke feels in my guts. Maybe he _does_ need a chaperone… or a bodyguard.

“Well, if it escalates, you know I’m the person to call,” says Alistair. “And… I really would like to go out sometime… Can we try again?”

“Definitely.”

 

Downstairs, Anders is already sitting in the lobby waiting for me. I think I took longer than ten minutes, but he doesn’t look upset. In fact, he smiles when he sees me.

“Did your date take it okay?” he asks, standing up.

I shrug. “He was canceling too, as it turns out.”

Anders squints at me.

“Yeah… he actually told me something interesting, though,” I add. “Apparently Meredith Corp is putting a plan together for the Orlesian government…”

Anders sucks in a little breath. “That’s a really bad omen for the rest of us.”

“I’m not so sure; when has Ferelden ever done anything Orlais wanted it to?” Then I laugh, but it feels forced. I realize I’m unwittingly trying to cheer Anders up—his expression has grown eerily dark.

“I guess…” He looks out toward the street through the lobby doors. “Come on; let’s go.”

“Yeah okay…” I follow him, just a few steps behind. His shoulders hunch and he bristles against the night air. “So… this kid… what’s happening to him?”

Anders pauses on the sidewalk to look back at me. The light from a street lamp illuminates his face for a fraction of a second and the expression he’s wearing can only be described as foreboding. I shiver.

“He’s just having a tough time adjusting… you’ll see.”

 

The hovel doesn’t seem nearly as disgusting as it did the last time I was here, but it’s significantly more crowded. If I had to venture a guess, I’d say its complement increased by fifty percent. We enter through a wall of skeptical, tired-looking people in various layers of mismatched scarves and hats and jackets.

“It’s okay,” says someone. When we round the corner, I see that it’s Hawke. They’re leaning down to talk to someone small—someone I can’t see from my vantage point.

“Hey, Hawke… we came as quickly as we could,” says Anders, putting a hand on Hawke’s shoulder.

“We?” Hawke looks up at Anders and then sees me. “Oh…”

I pick one hand up, but halfway to waving, I let it drop back to my side.

“Who is that guy?” says someone suddenly.

Anders and I turn to look in tandem: it’s the kid, now peeking from around Hawke’s shoulder.

“Hi, I’m Anders.” He kneels down, changing places with Hawke and motions for me to follow him. “What’s your name?”

“Petre,” answers the boy. Then he looks at me. “Who are _you_?” As he asks, he appraises me in a way I’ve rarely been scrutinized—and I include my parents’ scorn in that number. It’s such a stern look that I almost _forget_ how to answer him, but I eventually manage it.

“Dorian… Pavus…”

He laughs, then, humorless and dead. He can’t be older than fourteen, but the look in his eyes tells me he’s seen something—something that changed him. “Pavus?”

I suddenly feel like volunteering my last name was a mistake. I look at Anders without meaning to and he nods encouragingly, but I can’t feel it. I actually feel _threatened_.

“Yes. That’s right,” I say, trying to keep my posture neutral. My arms want to wrap around my chest, protective and solid, but I won’t let them. “I hear we’re from the same place.”

Petre sniffs, looking down at the floor. “We used to be.”

A heavy silence falls in the midst of our odd little triangle. Everything in me wants to leave—to get back outside into the dirty alley and run down the street until I can hail a cab and get the hell out of here...

“How long have you lived here?” Petre asks suddenly, interrupting my train of thought.

“Almost twenty years now,” I answer quickly.

Petre hasn’t looked back at me—an oily lock of hair is obscuring his eyes—but it’s as if the room is empty except for the two of us. A polarity has formed between us; I just can’t tell if it’s pushing me away or pulling me in.

“What did they kick you out for?” asks Petre.

“Kick me out?”

Then he moves—faster than I expect. He jumps up onto his feet and his hands are out in front of him, fire erupting from both the palms in a blaze so hot it’s _blue_ , not red. His fingers fly up and toward my neck; I have to duck and scramble backward to avoid being singed. It happens so fast, I don’t realize I’ve hit a large wooden support beam rather hard—there’s a ringing in my ears.

Anders is at my side in an instant; Hawke too. They push Petre back until he’s just _seething_ , smoke still floating in the air between us.

“Petre, calm down,” says Hawke. Then they lean in, almost nose to nose, whispering something else through gritted teeth.

Anders steps into my field of vision, but I instinctively try to look _around_ him at what’s happening on the floor. I’m afraid to take my eyes off of Petre for even a second. He’s scary, but it isn’t _only_ that… If I’m honest with myself, he reminds me of _me_.

 

* * *

 

 

As I’ve already established, I threw lots of fits in my youth. Granted, they weren’t of the _flammable_ variety, but I could be firey in my own way. My parents were usually the cause of such outbursts, but the person who often absorbed them was my tutor, Luciana. She was a stately woman; in another life, she could have been beautiful, I’m sure, but life had been hard on her. In her youth, she was burned badly in an industrial accident and half her face was covered in scars. The eye on that side was intact, but blind—white and cloudy. I think now that she tolerated me as a result of this childhood folley. Compared to her own suffering, what were my antics?

Her stoicism did not stop me, however. About two weeks before my fifteenth birthday, my parents announced that I was going to be sent back to boarding school, despite my recent expulsion. We fought for hours and I eventually ended up slamming the door to my father’s study and knocking a bookcase onto the floor—I still remember the way it splintered around his most prized first editions. When it was lying there, inert and ruined, I turned toward his desk and was about to break his marble busts of great Archons of the distant past when Luciana spoke up.

“Dorian,” she said quietly. “What are you doing?”

I whirled, dazed and furious. “What does it look like?”

“Like you’ve made a few mistakes already and are planning to make a few more,” she answered. “You don’t _have to_ , you know.”

I laughed wildly. “Is this the part where you show me the error of my ways and I cry and apologize? Did my father put you up to this?”

Then she turned—silent and slow—to highlight the burned side of her face. She lifted a long finger toward the edge of her mottled skin and waited until my breathing became regular.

“Dorian, all sorts of things will happen to you in your life,” she said. “How you react to them is utterly up to you.”

Even then, I knew I shouldn't say anything. I had a concept—albeit an idiotically simple one—of how hard her life had been. My suffering didn’t compare.

“So, Dorian…” she took several steps forward until she was close enough that I could see her ruined tear ducts leak indiscriminately. It was grotesque, but I couldn’t look away. “Keep your head down; do what you must… but know this: you can leave anytime you want. It may be painful, but you _can_.”

...and although I still acted out for the next few years, although I certainly didn’t always play nice, I always remembered what she said—and the moment I was old enough, I left… and I never looked back.

 

* * *

 

 

So today, when Petre glares at me with the full weight of his abilities behind him, I know what to say, because someone kind and wrecked once took pity on me… and I might not be wrecked in such an obvious way, but I know something about pain.

“Petre,” I begin quietly. “I didn’t get kicked out… but I might as well have.”

His expression doesn’t change, but I can tell he’s listening to me. Hawke backs off a foot and Anders quietly looks back and forth between us.

“I was born into a situation where I didn’t fit and I couldn’t squeeze myself into that mold… so eventually, I had to leave,” I explain. “And even though I miss my family and my country and everything I ever knew… I’d do it again, because I’m free. And now… with people like Anders, you will be too.”

Petre swallows visibly and takes two steps toward me across the floor. Hawke looks ready to pull him off at the slightest provocation, but nothing aggressive seems to be happening. When he finally gets within six inches of my face, he leans toward my ear and whispers, “It’s a nice story… but I know _what_ you are.” Then he backs up and walks off toward Hawke, already talking about something else, but I can’t hear a word; my pulse is thumping in my ears.

Anders grabs my shoulder and looks into my face. “Dorian… Dorian, are you okay?”

I blink. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine.”

“What did he say to you?”

“Nothing… nothing important.”

...but the whole way home, I silently replay those words in my mind, stomach churning and sweat beading on the back of my neck. Anders smiles at me whenever the light from outside the cab strobes on his face and I manage to smile back, but something’s wrong—something’s _happened_.

* * *

 


	6. Like a hug, but lazier

* * *

“Hey,” I squish the phone between my shoulder and ear and mouth ‘thank you’ to someone who holds open the coffee shop door for me. “What are you doing tonight?”

Alistair laughs on the other end. “Are you, Dorian Pavus, finally trying to make up our date from last month?”

“Well, I thought I might,” I say happily. “The polls open tomorrow morning; there’s nothing to do but wait for the media frenzy… I’ve got twelve hours; want to spend them with me?”

“ _All_ of them?”

We both laugh.

“We’ll see…”

Alistair sighs. “Okay. Want to meet at my place first?”

“Sure. Text me the address.”

 

* * *

 

 

His townhouse is on a street I love. The cobblestones give way to stone pavers as I approach the stairs. It’s a six-stair walk up to a beautiful yellow door. I wonder if he picked the color. Before I have a chance to knock, the door swings open and he’s smiling on the other side.

“Hey,” he says. “Come in.”

The inside is even nicer than the outside would have you believe—the foyer has a rod iron chandelier that casts variable shadow around the otherwise dimmed room. Hardwood floors and antique wall sconces complete the look: rustic and industrial, but with clearly modern convenience.

“I like your place,” I say.

“Oh yeah?” His face brightens. “Thank you.” He looks like he’s about to tell me the process by which he decorated it—which actually seems quite interesting—but he’s interrupted when this extremely fit blonde person appears over his left shoulder.

“You must be Dorian,” says the person. They look so similar I’m sort of alarmed—they could be _twins_.

“Hi, yes…” I shake his hand tentatively.

“Cailan, god… stop…” complains Alistair. “Now he’s going to know I actually _like_ him.” Then he turns to me, “Dorian… meet my brother…”

We all laugh, but something feels unsettled in my gut. I haven’t been anyone’s _obvious_ object of affection in so long I forgot what it felt like. In fact, it feels like a long time since anything nice or simple or normal even happened _around_ me.

It’s been a month since Anders and I had our run-in with Petre, but I haven’t been able to forget. My nightmares all revolve around those words: _I know what you are_.

“So, what are you doing tonight?” asks Cailan happily.

I’m about to tell him, but Alistair interrupts me.

“Uh, no,” he says flatly. “You are _not_ inviting yourself on our date…”

“I wasn’t going to do that!” Cailan cries. Then his expression softens. “Maybe just a little… but don’t you,” he’s addressing _me_ now, “want to know all Al’s dirty little secrets right off the bat? I could save you months of teasing it out of him… he’s a hell of a curator of his own life…”

I know it’s a joke, but that strikes me. _I_ do that too—in a huge way. The Dorian I paint myself to be isn’t the Dorian I am… and every time I meet someone new I have the tendency to become a type of Dorian who is complementary to what I assume they need or want. It’s not _always_ a bad thing. In fact, professionally speaking, it’s exceedingly helpful. But personally… well… it can be pretty damaging. It’s that thought that leads me to say something I don’t expect. It falls out of my mouth without my expression permission, actually.

“Why don’t we let him come?” I ask Alistair.

Alistair rolls his eyes.

“See?” says Cailan, clapping Alistair on the back. “I _knew_ I liked this one.”

 

When we get to the bar, a band is setting up on stage. It occurs to me then that I don’t know anything about Alistair’s taste in music… or anything about him, actually. I know his job and I know he’s sort of charming and funny, but beyond that we’re perfect strangers who have seen each other a bunch of times over the last half year.

“So do you often let your brother crash your dates?” I ask Alistair.

He laughs. “No, not normally. He doesn’t actually live here; he’s just… going through a thing.”

It’s a strange, vague answer, but I don’t give it much thought when Cailan leans over my shoulder, laughing, then brushes a hand through his hair in this _very_ attractive way. “I just wanted to see what kind of a guy my little brother decided to date… he won’t shut up about you.”

“Really?” I turn to Alistair and smirk. “How embarrassing for _you_ …”

Alistair laughs. “God… why do I hang out with you?” He rolls his eyes pointedly at Cailan.

“Because I’m here to give everyone a reality check… you’re young and hot and not _saddled_ to anyone…” Cailan rambles.

“Oh god… not this again,” says Alistair. We find a seat at a high-top near the stage while he’s still talking. “Just because _he’s_ miserable, it doesn’t mean everyone is…”

“Miserable?” I ask. I end up on Alistair’s left, across from Cailan. “What’s wrong with your life?”

Cailan rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. It’s funny because I have seen Alistair do that before almost every press conference—family trait, apparently.

“He’s in the middle of a very contentious divorce,” explains Alistair.

“Oh…” I feel my face fall.

Cailan laughs. “Don’t worry; I’m very used to it. Anora and I got married way too young… we grew apart… nothing _horrible_ … it’s just a matter of finances, now…” Then he smiles. “But that’s what lawyers are for, right?” He slaps Alistair on the back and laughs again. “Wait…” he narrows his eyes at me. “You’re not a lawyer, right?”

“God, no…” I smile, feeling my shoulders relax a little. It’s actually strange, in all the ‘talking about me’ that Alistair supposedly did, he apparently didn’t mention my job. I’m not sure how to feel about that; I am used to being defined by what I do, not who… or _what_ … I am. I shiver—those _words_ again.

“No, he runs political campaigns,” Alistair adds.

Cailan makes a face. “God, that’s worse.”

And despite the trepidation I feel, I manage to shrug it off and laugh; we all do.

 

* * *

 

  

It’s almost two as we leave the bar. Cailan is a little drunker than I am, but he’s a fun-drunk, not the sad kind I sometimes turn into. Alistair manages to hail us a cab.

“All right,” says Alistair, “So we’ll go back to my place and then regroup?”

We agree and take off into the night. It isn’t a long drive back to Alistair’s place, but I find myself looking out the window, thinking. Anders and I have spent a lot of late nights driving with the rest of the campaign. We have a big bus with his face on the outside. He _hates_ it. To be fair, so do I; the whole thing seems gauche, but I got outvoted. It’s funny, though; the longer I stare at that gigantic approximation of his face, the more I like it.

This entire campaign has been like that, actually. The longer we spend together, the more I like him. Only… now there’s an impediment. We can’t seem to talk about what happened—about the secrets we’re sharing. In the months before he showed me what he could do, we used to spend every night together going over speeches and campaign tactics, but now… I think he’s avoiding me.

It occurs to me that that _hurts_ in some deep visceral way… and even though I’m here, on a date with this great guy, who’s willing to introduce me to his immediate family on a first date, it doesn’t make it hurt any less.

 

By the time I’ve come to that sobering conclusion, we’re pulling up to Alistair’s townhouse.

“Do you want to come in for a few minutes?” he asks quietly.

I nod. I’m not really ready to go back to my empty hotel room yet and I _am_ curious about what will happen next—when we’re alone.

The first hurdle, though, is getting Cailan to go to bed. Alistair pulls him upstairs straight away, but I can still hear him babbling about something even when they round the corner and a door shuts behind them. I’m left alone in the foyer during the whole exchange, which gives me a minute to look at the pictures on the wall. There are _lots_ of Cailan and Alistair—on ski trips, summer vacations, and birthdays—and several that I assume are Cailan’s soon-to-be-ex-wife, but there is no evidence of their parents anywhere.

“I’m so sorry,” says Alistair, descending the stairs. He’s actually _rushing_ to get back to me, I notice. It’s flattering.

“Don’t worry; you two are obviously very close.” I gesture vaguely at all the photographs.

He smiles at them. “Yeah… we are…” He swallows and looks at me a little nervously. “After our parents died… it was all we had left… you know—each other.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say. A reflex makes me reach out a put a hand on his forearm. It’s one of the first times I’ve actually _touched_ him, despite the fact that this is supposed to be a date. It doesn't feel forced, though. It feels kind of _right_.

He shakes his head. “Don’t worry; it was a long time ago…” He keeps staring at the photos, but his hand finds its way to my waist and we stand there—halfway into a hug, in the middle of the hall. “Anyway, I’m more fortunate than most—I have one family member who totally gets me. Lots of people don’t have that.”

“You can say that again…” The attempt at levity is idiotic and falls flat, but he looks at me in the _gentlest_ way I can imagine.

“Do you want a cup of coffee?” he asks, as if it’s the most commonplace thing a person could want at two thirty in the morning. And although it’s mad, I _agree_ and follow him into the kitchen.

It’s a lovely kitchen, fitting with the rest of the house. The countertops are clearly marble—stained and cracked like someone loved them for fifty years before Alistair was even born. An Edison bulb hangs over a ceramic farmer’s sink. It’s all very _Ferelden_ —that is to say, nothing I’m used to, although I like it. Even though I’ve lived here for two decades, it still doesn’t feel like home; I still always notice the differences.

I slide onto a barstool at the island and watch him fiddle with a thousand knobs on a very complicated-looking coffee machine.

“So, that was sort of a disaster,” he says suddenly, not looking up.

“What was?”

He laughs. “That supposed date. Or do you _normally_ go on dates with brothers?”

I snort.

“I promise he won’t be around the next time I take you somewhere,” he says, turning back to the coffee maker.

“Next time?”

He laughs. “Yeah… I’d really like to get to know you, Dorian. You know… after the election or whatever.”

“Get to know me now,” I say. “And we’ll see if ‘next time’ is on the table.”

“Okay... “ He steps away from the coffee pot just as it starts to percolate. “What’s wrong with your family?”

_Wow. He doesn’t pull any punches._

“Well… they’re not super happy with me… as a person…” Petre’s words swirl in my mind, just like they do every time I’m not careful to avoid them: _I know what you are_... but I swallow and blink and manage to stay present.

“What does _that_ mean?” He sits on the stool immediately next to mine and leans in so we’re _very_ close together. I’d normally find that unnerving, but I don’t right now.

“Well, my parents had very specific ideas about what I should do with my life. Moving to the south—Ferelden of all places—was not among them,” I explain. “And neither was not getting married and having babies…”

He smiles, but it’s not accompanied by any kind of a laugh. He looks like he’s genuinely commiserating with me.

“Did your parents have a lot of expectations for _you_?” I ask.

“Not as many as they had for my brother,” he answers. “He was supposed to run our father’s company… he sort of does, actually, but Anora—she’s the CFO—does most of the actual work.”

“I see. Forgive me for saying this, but Cailan does _not_ seem like any kind of executive.”

“Oh my god, I know…” He laughs, and in the silence that follows, puts a hand on my shoulder—thumb rubbing circles into the fabric of my sweater. “So are you in contact with them? Your parents?”

I sigh and shrug, but instead of shrugging _out_ of his hand, I find myself leaning into it. “My father passed on a few years ago, actually… and before that… only intermittently… I hadn’t really seen them in years.”

He nods understandingly and scoots a little closer on his stool—our knees touch.

“The last time, I was just starting a senatorial campaign… it was one of my first ones on my own… and I’m not sure what I thought would happen, but I went back to my childhood home and told my parents. That’s when I discovered my father had fallen ill.”

“I see. What happened?” he asks.

“Well, my mother told me that I had turned my back on the family first and now my country of origin,” I bark a laugh and close my eyes. “I still remember the look on her face when she asked me to leave.”

Alistair bites his lip and blinks. It smacks of empathy, not pity. It feels so warm that I reach across the counter to hold his hand. His eyes follow the gesture and he smiles.

“Anyway, that’s the moment I decided I was an orphan…” The second I’ve said it, I realize it’s incredibly insensitive—Alistair actually _is_ an orphan. “Oh… I’m sorry—”

He laughs gently. “Don’t worry. It’s okay; I know what you mean…” He grips my hand a little tighter. “Besides, I think what you went through is worse. I was so little when my parents died that I don’t remember them… and everything I _do_ know about them is very complimentary… I can remember them as symbols: kind and gentle and good… what you have to hold onto is quite a bit more challenging, I think.”

“You’re awfully perceptive for this early in the morning.” I laugh and smile,  but it feels a little sad, too. He’s _right_.

“I try…” he says. “I was about to say, ‘I have to be for my job’ but then I remembered what you think of my _noble profession_ …”

“Whatever do you mean?”

He laughs. “What was it you called the press once? A pack of vultures?”

“When did I say that?” I ask.

“When you didn’t think we could hear you, I assume.” He stretches his arms overhead and yawns. “It’s uh… getting kind of late…” Then he looks up at me through heavy lids; it seems like each blink might signal the end.

“Yeah, I guess I should go,” I say. I don’t try to move, though. It reminds me a little of what always happens when I’m with Anders late at night—that pull that keeps me from leaving… except, this is something different: it’s just tiredness, not magnetism.

He trails his hand up my arm and around my chest until we’re very close together. It’s like a hug, but lazier.

“Do you… want to stay?” he asks.

I _don’t_ really; it feels a little forced… but I don’t want to go back to my hotel room either. I don’t want to be alone with my anxiety about tomorrow or the AC unit that kicks on and off all night. I don’t want to be down the hall from Anders, wondering what he’s doing—wondering if another emergency will necessitate our swift departure, wondering if it will be another event I can’t seem to forget… So I acquiesce.

“Yeah… I’ll stay...”

* * *

 


	7. Headboard Talk

* * *

_I know what you are_.

            _No._

My hands are full of flames, but they’re not red or yellow or blue; they’re too bright to look at… they’re… they’re bolts of lightning.

_What???_

I rub my hand against one eye and it _burns_.

My reflection: one half of my face… ruined… a milky eye…

 

* * *

 

 

I sit bolt upright in bed, sweating and panting. _Have I cried out_? I don’t know where I am, but I scramble out of bed and bang into an unfamiliar wall. Of course, I never sleep anywhere very long, but most hotel rooms are set up in vaguely the same way—this place _isn’t_. It’s then that I realize this is Alistair’s townhouse… and I’ve just woken him up.

“Are you all right?” he asks. He blinks at me in the dark. “What time is it?”

I can’t see the clock from this angle, and without my glasses, I couldn't read it, but I nonsensically squint at it anyway. When I don’t say anything, Alistair answers his own question:

“It’s only five… we’ve been asleep for like _one_ hour,” he announces, laughing.

With the vestiges of that dream still filling my brain, I feel vaguely terrified. I grab for my clothes on the floor and drag them on quickly enough that I almost trip on one of the pant legs; I need to get out of here.

“Hey… want to sit for a few minutes?” he asks. “If you can’t sleep, that’s fine… it’s a big day… but… let me make you some coffee at least…?”

“A big day?” I repeat.

He laughs. “The _election_?” He stands on his own side of the bed and puts some semblance of clothing on. It’s clearly a gesture; I appreciate it. “Isn’t that why you’re freaking out?”

I don’t have a good answer. I’m not about to tell him that an exiled kid—some kind of _crazed_ thing—scared the shit out of me and I can think of nothing else. I’m not about to tell him that I wish Anders were here. I’m not about to admit _that_ even to myself.

 

“Sorry,” I say quietly, smoothing the sheets and sitting on top. I’m careful not to touch him as I get into bed. It’s not light out yet, but the whole thing feels a little awkward now. I lean against the headboard and sigh out a breath. “I guess I’ve been under a lot of stress.”

“I can imagine.” Alistair smiles at me, then leans across my chest. At first, I think he’s going to kiss me, but that isn’t his intention. He’s reaching for the remote. “Let’s watch the coverage? They’re going to be up and predicting stuff already… based on nothing, essentially.”

I manage to smile. He’s right. Political analysts start early—sometimes with only one percent of the vote.

“Okay,” I say. “Thanks.”

Then he _does_ kiss me, but it’s gentle—just a peck on one cheek... as if we’ve kissed every morning for years… as if we’re _something_ to each other… as if he knows who I really am… I scoff internally: as if _anyone_ does.

 

* * *

 

 

It reminds me of a time when Anders and I stayed up all night together. The situation was different, of course… namely, we began and stayed _dressed_ … but still… I remember watching the sun rise out our hotel window. We were on the sixteenth floor of the Waldorf—certainly the nicest hotel we stayed in during our cross-Ferelden tour. But despite the beautiful finishings and the perfectly chosen linens and duvets, I didn’t spend a minute in my own bed.

“What time is it?” asked Anders, yawning. He blinked across the room at a clock and I watched his eyes widen. “Oh my god… it’s almost five.”

“Really?” I asked. “Time flies when you’re having fun, I guess.” I didn’t look up from my laptop, but I heard him scoff.

“If you think this is fun, you must really be a masochist.”

“I have been known to suffer without complaint,” I joked.

He raised an eyebrow at me and smirked, but didn’t say anything else. We didn’t know each other very well back then, but we were starting to be able to laugh together. That night, we were working on his first big campaign speech. It needed to be punchy and memorable and, above all else, _kind_ —that’s what he was known for, what his supporters expected. In order to do that, we had taken over his room about twelve hours ago and demanded no disruptions. Paper drafts were splayed out all across the bedspread—he’s rather old-school like that.

“I think I might be losing perspective,” I said. “Can you read it through one more time and let me know what you think?”

He nodded, pulling a stack of papers onto his lap. He was almost lying down at this point—barely able to remain upright against the weight of his tiredness, I assume, but he read it through anyway.

“ _So_?” I asked. “What do you think?”

“I think there are words on this page… some of them seem like things I’ve seen before…”

We both laughed. As we did, I slid against the headboard. Not close to him—it was a king-size bed—but _still_ , we were sitting there side-by-side. I could almost feel him. That’s when everything got weird: he reached across me to grab a glass of water on the nightstand, only I didn’t know that’s what he was doing at the time. For the split second that we were face to face, I thought that something was about to _happen_ —that all my years of professionalism were about to come to a screeching halt… that Anders was going to become something more than work… but none of that happened. He grabbed the water, pulled it back onto his side, and immediately resumed his previous posture, reclining against the headboard, right next to me.

...but something about _that_ seemed even more intimate—sitting together without expectation, without any presumption, without any need to perform… we were just ourselves. It’s a thing I’ve often wondered about in marriages: if most of them reach a point where all the debates have been settled, where all the discussions have led to ease. It wasn’t true in my parents’ marriage, of course, but it’s an ideal of mine: to get to the point where love and life happen without contingency… without conditions—where disagreement happens without inevitable dissolution.

 

So this morning, as Alistair gently sips coffee and chats with me while we watch the idiotic news ticker run by, it strikes me: he’s really likable and he’s very kind… and in some other universe, we might reach that ideal place… but it doesn’t feel like we will in this one; not while Anders’ campaign keeps me running, not while Anders _exists_ , even… especially not while he has his secrets and while he’s shared them with me.

 

* * *

 

 

It isn’t long before the sun rises and I have to leave. Alistair is nice through the whole process of letting me shower and get dressed on my own, all while taking phone call after phone call from nervous and interested parties. The only person who hasn’t called is Anders… and that makes me suspicious. Therefore, when I get back to the hotel at quarter till eight, his room is the first place I go.

“Anders?” I call.

The door swings open to reveal a very disheveled-looking version of the man I know. He actually looks a lot more like the _original_ Anders.

“Anders? What’s going on?” I ask, coming into the room slowly. “Are you all right?”

He looks up at me like he has just realized I’m here. “Oh… yeah, I’m fine.”

I don’t believe him even vaguely, so I close the door behind me and sit next to him on the unmade bed.

“Do you need to talk? Has something _happened_?” I ask. I’m hoping beyond hope that it’s nothing to do with Hawke or magic or kids who might be able to see _what I am_ , when even I can’t.

“It’s um… it’s just this…” he holds up his phone to show me an article entitled, ‘ _Teens killed in tragic fire_.’

The first paragraph explains that there were several children found dead in an abandoned building downtown. Apparently, the whole place caught fire without any discernible accelerant and law enforcement is baffled. Disturbingly, the byline reads _A. Theirin_.

“Which kids?” I ask quietly.

Anders sniffs, blinking in a way that looks painful. “I don’t know yet. I can’t get a hold of Hawke… but… I can imagine who set it.”

Guilt coils around my chest like a snake. I was supposed to _fix_ that kid… I was supposed to _reach_ him… but I failed. In fact, I only succeeded in scaring myself shitless.

“And it just makes all of this feel so meaningless,” says Anders, gesturing around the room, as if all of politics is housed here. “I don’t even know what I’m doing.”

He looks so sincere—and miserable—that I don’t know how to answer him. I have words for this: you’re working toward the next hurdle; you’re making sure this doesn’t happen again; you’re going to change the world… but none of it feels right. He deserves more than rhetoric.

“Dorian,” he says, suddenly looking deeply into my eyes, “I don’t know what to do.”

I swallow around a lump that has mysteriously appeared in my throat. The sound is wet and thick, but I ignore it. “There’s nothing to be done now; it’s time to see what happens.”

He smiles, then, but it doesn’t reach his eyes; it’s sad.

We sit in silence together for what feels like a long time, although I can’t be sure. Relativity may be tricking me.

Finally, he speaks. “Can you go? I need to be alone for a while.”

I stand and start walking toward the door, but pause at the threshold. “If you need anything, you know I’ll come right back; don’t you?”

He nods slowly. “Of course I do.”

* * *

 


	8. A Fallen Hero

* * *

_With 98% of precincts reporting, we can now announce the outcome of this hotly contested congressional race…_

 

I can’t watch. It’s too close and I’m too close _to it_. The whole room is buzzing. It’s the kind of pre-celebratory fervor that happens in campaigns. No matter what, there will be a party—it’s only a question of if we’re planning for the next steps or saying goodbye. I’ve had enough experience with both to know which I prefer—with one notable exception: _Felix_.

When I was growing up, I had a best friend. His name was Felix Alexius and he was one of the only other people I knew who wasn’t utterly ruined by the status quo of Tevinter society. Our parents were friends and although we were sent to different boarding schools, we spent every summer together. By the time we were choosing colleges, we knew we would be roommates. It was that kind of friendship that is easy and reignites itself in proximity, regardless of how much time has passed in between. So when we returned to school our senior year of college, after summers abroad, we had that exact experience.

“Fee!” I shouted, opening my arms. “How was Orlais?”

“It was… _amazing_ ,” he said.

“Really? I thought you hated all that garbage… masks and shit.”

He laughed. “Well… maybe the whole _country_ wasn’t perfect… but I… well, I met someone.”

I felt my face change. Neither of us was exactly _alone_ —we had lots of _callers_ , let’s say—but no one I would call ‘someone’...

“Really?” I asked, not sure what to do with my face.

He laughed, shrugging and turning an alarming shade of red. “C’mon, Dor… you don’t think I can find _someone_ in the whole world of someone’s?”

“It’s not that…” I said lamely, looking down at the floor. Something about this felt different and I think that I knew intrinsically that something was about to change. In fact, I think it was that _fear_ that made me snap, “Well? Who is it?”

He squinted at me and gripped the strap of his bag against his shoulder. “It’s um… well, her name is Eva.”

“Okay… _and_?” He didn’t look right. I remember the way his face changed—wrinkles appeared around his eyes, even though he was barely twenty-two.

“Well, you know I was working on a parliamentary campaign while I was there, right?” he asked.

I nodded. “Yeah, of course. Political science until the end; I listen when you talk.” My attempt at levity was fairly pathetic. I didn’t like the sound of this _Eva_ , for reasons I couldn’t quite understand back then. _Now_ , I get it, though—Felix was the person closest to me in the entire world; I couldn’t imagine sharing him.

On the subject of sharing, I’ve never been very good at it. Maybe it’s a product of being an only child or a result of having parents whose love was held ransom, but either way, I tend to hoard things I love—and people.

“Well, she was my candidate…” says Felix.

“What?” I asked.

He nodded, looking embarrassed.

“Oh…”

_Silence._

“I didn’t mean for it to end up this way,” he said. “I know what you think… it’s unprofessional… it’s stupid… but…” Then he paused, making eye contact strong enough to throw me. “...and it isn’t as if I have all the time in the world left… this might be my only chance.”

My heart sank.

What I haven’t mentioned yet about Felix—what I always try to forget—is that he was dying. A rare blood disorder had almost claimed him several times in his youth. I remember the way the hospital smelled—bleach and death. His parents spent a sizable amount of their wealth finding him doctors from every corner of Thedas, but nothing seemed to work. That is, until our last year of high school. By the time we went away to college together, he was almost sure he was going to make it—so was I. But then, the spring before he went to study abroad in Orlais, everything changed: his lab values took a plunge, from which he couldn’t recover. His parents urged him to reconsider his trip—to stay home and let them cart him from doctor to doctor.

I’ll never forget the way his father looked when Felix ultimately refused.

“I love her,” Felix said. “I don’t care if we don’t have forever—we have right now.”

“Okay…” I whispered, barely breathing. “Okay, Fee… what do you need from me?”

Then he smiled—bright and gentle, like he hadn’t a care in the world. “Come with me to the campaign party tonight. You’re going to love her.”

 

That night, we went together. It was my first foray into politics—I was an anthropologist in training, remember? I couldn’t believe the decadence or the drive. The whole place seemed full of spinning tops, more than people.

“There she is,” said Felix, weaving through the crowd with me in tow.

“Hi,” said Eva. She greeted me over the din in the room and I could barely hear her, but I noticed the way she looked at Felix. She was clearly older than us, clearly more accomplished and mature, but she looked at him like an equal—more than that… like a person she admired. And although it made me jealous—the idea of splitting what time Felix had left—I decided to be gracious… for him.

“It’s great to meet you!” I yelled. Just as I started to introduce myself, though, the room filled with cheers.

“Eva! You won!” yelled Felix.

They hugged and a hundred voices cheered in unison.

...and for a moment, we thought that meant everything would be perfect. We thought that Eva’s success was his success… or at least _I_ did… but too soon, she was leaving… and Felix was again alone. I know now that some campaign manager probably told her to _lose the kid_ _or else_. It’s what _I_ would do, even though the thought of it in this context still sets my teeth on edge.

Felix tried to be brave in the aftermath. The breakup was cruel; she wouldn't even tell him _why_. And through it all he put up a front that rivaled any politician I’ve ever worked with. I remember the way his face looked—a toothy grin and a deeper left dimple, but darkness in his eyes… a secret pain that only I could see.

Ultimately, it wasn’t sadness that killed him, but it might as well have been.

 

* * *

 

 

...And so, listening to the news come in, I remember that sometimes winning means _losing_. I just hope it isn’t true tonight.

_By a small margin—only 3% of the vote—the Rutherford campaign has done it…!_

Everyone yells; I can barely see through the ocean of conciliatory back slaps and shocked _awes_ and _oohs_. It takes me a minute to get through the crowd to Anders, but I manage it eventually. He’s smiling at everyone—bright and golden, just like I taught him, despite the outcome. And I know that he’s hurting, too, but I think only I can see that… because now I realize, in the same way I knew Felix, I know _him_.

“Hey, can we go talk somewhere?” I say quietly against his ear. All eyes are on us, so I make sure I smile around the words, even though it’s the last thing I want to do.

Anders nods to me and puts a hand in the small of my back to lead me out of the room. For me, the crowds won’t part, but they will for him— _a fallen hero_. When we’re out of earshot in the hallway outside, he lets his expression soften.

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

“For what? I failed you.”

He shakes his head. “No you didn’t.” Then he smiles. “You did the absolute best you could… it’s not your fault the rest of the country wasn’t ready.”

It almost feels worse than he’s being so kind to me. I feel like garbage. “Well, I’m sorry anyway…”

He shrugs.

“...and, for the record,” I say, “I think you would have been a fantastic congressman… If you decide to run again, call me.”

He smiles. “I think my days in politics are over, actually… There are things that need changing and I tried _their_ way—now it’s time to try something else.”

I eye him suspiciously, but he doesn’t give anything else away. I assume he means he’ll finish his book… but I’m afraid he means something else, too.

“But thanks,” he adds. “And… stay in touch, okay?”

We nod to each other and shake hands stiffly. It feels wrong, but so does everything else. We _lost_. All there is left now is to say goodbye.

 

The staff is gracious in the aftermath. We all disperse to new campaigns and new jobs—including me. Because ‘a change is as good as a rest’ (according to my grandmother, once upon a time) I find a job almost instantly—in a university, of all places. It’s a trip full-circle and I’m suddenly teaching anthropology to students who might go on desert expeditions, like I once planned to. Unlike my own mentor, though, I’m not going to dissuade them. After this particular defeat, politics don’t interest me anymore. There are so many things about this campaign I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget—not the least of which is that look on Anders’ face the day we said goodbye.

 _Stay in touch_ , he’d said… and despite my intentions to the contrary, **six months later** , we haven’t spoken at all.

* * *

 


	9. Something to Believe in

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six Months Later

* * *

“Hey, I’m just leaving; where are you?” I ask, pushing out through the throngs of students on the campus sidewalk.

“Just finishing up at my office; want me to meet you somewhere?” asks Alistair. “Have you eaten?”

It’s actually hard to remember. I’m so busy these days that trivialities like _eating_ hardly come into it. “I think I had like ten almonds?”

“That is _not_ lunch.” He sighs, but he’s also laughing. “I’m staging an intervention—I’ll make reservations and text you.”

I’m about to argue, but it’s impossible when he’s like this. I know I’m not the easiest person to deal with and he does a beautiful job of it most of the time. I’m never completely sure why. He could certainly find someone who is less of a challenge—someone who _automatically_ deserves his particular brand of care, who doesn’t balk at his steadfast neutrality or good nature. Nevertheless, he seems to have picked me, for better or worse.

“Fine. See you soon.”

“Love you,” he adds.

“Yeah… love you too.” I feel a little weird saying it here—at school, where people can presumably hear me—but that makes sense: I’ve never been comfortable admitting to loving anyone. In my experience, the line between love and weakness is very fine. Nevertheless, I _do_ love him… so I say it, even if my tongue doesn’t want to do it.

 

The last six months have been like this, for the most part—that is to say, _personally_ uneventful. Alistair and I picked up with a series of increasingly nice dates almost immediately after the campaign ended and fluidly became a couple sometime during that first month—it’s hard to say exactly what day, but it feels good. He’s very kind. That was especially true right after Anders lost. I was a _mess_ for a while, actually. Alistair was there for me like so few people ever have been.

All that being said, the _country_ is a bit less rosy. Immediately after Cullen was elected, things started to deteriorate, socially speaking. Bigoted people suddenly felt it was okay to guess about the genetics of virtual strangers. Society sometimes changes like that when people in power normalize terrible behavior. Luckily, that tech hasn’t been implemented full-scale, like he wanted, thanks to checks and balances, but companies and schools electively took it up… and no one will say it _aloud_ , but I have a feeling that people like Hawke—people like _Anders_ —might be in trouble. Missing persons’ reports are up in every district and unexplained crimes run across the news ticker every day…

Of course, they— _the_ _mages_ … the name still feels funny, even in my own head—maintained secrecy for a long time before I even knew about them, so nothing is clear, but I’m worried. At night, when everything is still and all I can hear is Alistair asleep in the bed next to me—or _not_ ; we don’t cohabitate officially—the fear keeps me awake. It’s strange because I’ve always been pretty good at ignoring things that stress me out. I guess this might be a special case. Something about it feels _personal_ —maybe it was something about Anders… for a little while, I thought he was something to believe in…

Nevertheless, I manage my day-to-day fairly well, most of the time. I teach my classes, I skip lunch regularly, and I go on lots of impromptu dates. So although I have a pit in my stomach, I arrive at the restaurant to meet Alistair with a smile on my face and a bounce in my step… and a plan to drink lots of wine to cover up what I can’t completely ignore.

 

The restaurant is crowded when I get there. I look around for Alistair, but I don’t see him right away. It’s then that I notice it’s eerily silent. At first, I can’t understand what is going on when the host doesn’t even address me. I’m about to text Alistair, _this restaurant is really going downhill_ , but then I follow the collective gaze up to a screen over my shoulder.

_Riot in downtown Denerim… police standoff… former congressional candidate… inciting panic…_

I’m instantly sweaty and cold. Surely, it can’t be _Anders_ ; it must be some lesser candidate—someone who dropped out early in the race, someone whose name _doesn’t_ make my heart leap into my throat.

_Witnesses say he held off a police barricade… a younger woman was shot… mysteriously not injured…_

Oh Maker, it’s got to be him. I stare, transfixed, at the shaky footage of a makeshift encampment in the middle of a wide downtown street until my phone starts buzzing in my pocket. It’s Alistair.

“Dorian… where are you?”

“I’m at the restaurant; where are _you_?”

It’s super loud in the background on his end. I can barely hear him. “I’m downtown. I’m stuck behind a police blockade,” he answers. “I left my car about two hundred meters back; I’m going to try to get a statement…”

“Al, please… that’s—” I’m about to tell him it’s ridiculous or that he needs to be _careful_ , but he interrupts me.

“Dorian, _it’s Anders_ … he’s here with the demonstrators.”

My mouth feels dry.

“I don’t know what he’s doing with these people, but there’s something _really_ weird going on here,” he continues. “Everyone’s acting really strangely—even the media can’t get too close… and, Dorian… this place is _crawling_ with Meredith Corp employees…”

“What are they doing there?” I ask, already dreading the answer.

“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.”

There’s a lot of rustling in the background and then someone shouts before the line goes dead.

“Alistair?... Alistair?!”

 _Nothing_.

 

The last time I was scared—I mean _really_ scared—was in that little hovel in Denerim, when that kid got in my face. For a split second, I was sure he was going to do something horrible to me—something from which I wouldn’t recover—but that pales in comparison to this. For the few minutes it takes me to cross town, I’m in an absolute state of panic—for Ferelden, for Alistair… and… for _Anders_.

When I get there, lots of other people share my shocked expression. Even three blocks away, it’s impossible to get down the street by taxi, so I have to walk. I start to dissociate and narrate the whole thing: “Dorian pays the driver and gets out to walk, but finds himself running. He can’t feel his feet. He can’t feel the pavement. He can’t even feel the beat of his heart in his chest. He’s _hollow…_ and the ringing between his ears only intensifies when it matches pitch with the sirens.” If someone asked me to explain why I’m _this_ destroyed, I think I’d _say_ it’s because my boyfriend is here somewhere… but that would only be half the truth.

The closer I get, the louder and crazier everything becomes. People have formed a mob around an invisible, but solid, perimeter. Everyone looks grey, if I’m honest. I don’t see Alistair or Anders, but I almost immediately run into Anders’ head of security from the campaign: this deceptively demure-looking person named Merrill.

“God, Merrill. I’m so glad to see you,” I say, wiping a hand across my forehead. “What’s going on?”

She shakes her head at me. “Don’t even think about it.”

I’m not surprised that she’s acting like this with me. We never really had much of a raport and she’s _guarding_ , even now.

“What is going on back there, Merrill?” I ask, taking a step closer.

She speaks through a vice. “Go home, Dorian. There isn’t anything for you here—not anymore.”

“What does _that_ mean?”

She scoffs, looking down at the asphalt. “Forget it. Just get out of here.”

“No,” I argue. “I need to see Anders.”

“Why?”

“So I can talk him out of whatever insane thing he’s doing,” I blurt. “He needs a guide.”

She straightens. She’s still a head shorter than I am, but she seems imposing. “Dorian, Anders is about to make a difference in a way he couldn’t have _hoped_ to in that ivory tower up there.” She gestures vaguely at Capitol Hill. “He’s about to _change_ things.”

“ _What_ things?” I’m starting to shout, which I regret, but it can’t be helped. Even as Merrill and I are getting angrier, the crowd seems to be swelling with anticipatory rage.

“Stand back and you’ll see.” She raises an eye threateningly and and lifts her fingertips in the few inches between us.

I’m going to argue—to tell her that she doesn’t scare me, that we’re on the same side, that I _care_ about Anders in a way I barely even understand… but what she does next stops me dead. She presses those fingertips into the space between two of my ribs and something _happens._ The world spins slightly, like she’s siphoning the life right out of me. She’s barely even making contact, but I can almost trace the exodus through my body and into those slender digits.

“Back off, Dorian,” she growls.

It’s in that moment that I realize I’m a villain—at least to her. It’s a role I’ve only played once or twice before in my life—a role I’ve tried to forget.

 

* * *

 

 

The summer of my junior year of high school, I didn’t want to go home. I had attended this particular boarding school long enough to know that I _strongly_ preferred it to my parents’ alternating neglect and discipline. I especially wanted to stay because of someone I met—a boy. He was a charming sort—a little older, but not especially worldly… kind and thoughtful when it counted, but fierce in english lit and on the tennis court. Remember that bleachers incident I mentioned? Yes. That was him.

Anyway, by the time the school year was coming to a close, I had decided that I _needed_ him—in as much as any 16 year old can really need anyone.

“Hey,” I called across the tennis court to him one night. The sun was just beginning to set and the sweat beaded across his forehead in the most delightfully grotesque way. His dirty blonde curls stuck to his neck in spots. “William?”

He looked up at me and smiled—a confident kind of smile. Even back then, I knew such things were typically more facade than fact, but I liked it anyway.

“Are you heading home soon?” I asked.

He nodded to me, letting his racket rest against the net. “Yeah, just graduation left now…”

He was only two years older than I was, but it showed—the sway of his hips as he walked and the way his arms branched with sinew.

“And then what?” I asked.

Through the course of our slow conversation, we gravitated toward each other in odd orbit—neither of us willing to admit that we were going to meet in the middle.

“And then I’ll be off at college in the fall,” he said. “I’m thinking about taking a trip this summer, though… something formative.”

I had an idea of what he meant. He was the kind of student who lusts after something to write about. Of course, by virtue of being at _this_ school, he didn’t have anything but a host of house staff and a trust fund. He was looking for something _different_ … and, to be honest, so was I.

“Take me with you?” I asked, raising one corner of my mouth in suggestive plea.

He laughed. “I would _love_ to… but… don’t you have parents who will miss you?”

I reached my hand out to rest it on one of his hips and leaned in impossibly close, just a breath away. “Not as much as I’ll miss _you_ …” Then I kissed him—in the middle of the tennis court, in a place where anyone could see us.

 

...and that’s exactly what happened. Some tattletale in a lower year _must_ have, because just a few days later, I landed in front of the headmaster with my parents, where I was presented with a choice: admit what I’d done of my own volition and face the wrath of those people who begrudgingly raised me, or _lie_ and send a fantastic burgeoning person away with a mark on his transcript just one week before graduation.

I’m sure you can guess which one I chose.

“Mr. Pavus,” said the headmaster. “Did you or did you not encourage William Dart’s advances?”

“William is a neanderthal,” I said. “He’s completely fixated on me.”

She dropped her eyes to the page before her and wrote furiously fast while my parents and I stared in collusive silence.

“Of course, we wouldn’t want to get the disciplinary board involved,” said my father. “I think this can be handled more _delicately_ , don’t you?” He looked at my mother and me in turn, while we nodded at him somberly.

“If that’s something you’re _comfortable_ with, Dorian?” asked the headmaster.

I nodded, looking down at the floor. “I suppose I am.”

 

...what I haven’t mentioned is the conversation I had with my father just the night before.

“Dorian,” he said, leaning in to whisper, “If something _happened_ with this boy… it isn’t your fault.”

I scoffed. “My fault? And what if I chose it? Didn’t you raise me to be decisive?”

He closed his eyes slowly, like it was painful to even look at me, then sighed out a breath. “Dorian, you have your whole life ahead of you; why must you continue to make decisions that hurt _everyone_ you know?”

“Everyone? I don’t think they hurt _me_ , father… they didn’t hurt William, certainly…”

He glared.

“If you don’t approve, we don’t have to talk about it, but I’m not going to stop; this is who I am,” I said.

I watched while several expressions crossed his face: surprise, frustration, anger. He landed on imperious.

“Since you pride yourself on your decisiveness, I’ll leave you with a choice: This Dart boy… he’s been accepted into the writers’ program at a university in the northern islands… Tag Ofterlin—quite prestigious. If you insist on this ridiculous crusade—dragging your family’s good name through the mud—I’ll have no choice but to call my very good friend… a board member in the literature department there.”

“You wouldn't.”

“I would _have to_ ,” he said flatly.

I seethed, feeling the blood rush to my cheeks.

“Of course, there is another option,” he said quietly.

I knew this tactic. He wanted me to play along—to ask _what_ the option was. I remained obstinately silent.

“You can admit that this was a one-sided crush, that he approached and pursued you against your wishes, and agree to settle it without getting the disciplinary board involved… as long as he agrees to desist immediately—no further contact.”

What choice did I have? I had no power, no agency… and no ability to tell William the plan ahead of time. I still remember the look on his face when I saw him after the meeting.

“What the hell?” he shouted, crossing the street to get to me. He looked furious—why shouldn’t he have?

“Don’t talk to me,” I said.

“What?” He pushed a hand through his hair and gasped—like even breathing was difficult. “I’m apparently _stalking_ you now? Just two days ago you wanted to go away with me. I don’t understand; Dorian, what happened?”

I stood frozen on the sidewalk, just a few feet away from him. In fact, we were in almost the same positions as we were on the tennis court, but everything about it felt wrong.

“Dorian, _why_?”

That was the question, of course: Why? Because I wasn’t brave enough to stand up to my parents? Because I didn’t have the mental capacity to understand that I had options? Because I was afraid? None of it mattered. I’d done this; I’d ruined everything with a stupid, callous lie… and now I had to live with it. At least he would go on to live a good life—something full and exciting… and _far away_ from here...

“I don’t have to explain myself you to, William,” I said. “You have your graduation to attend, don’t you?”

“Yeah, no thanks to you,” he snapped.

That caught me off-guard. Wasn’t the whole point of this to protect him? To let him graduate unscathed? “What do you mean?” I asked.

“The headmaster dragged me in front of the disciplinary board and nearly expelled me. I’m lucky that she didn’t contact the admissions board at Tag Ofterlin.”

I bit the inside of my cheek and willed my face to be still. This was exactly what I’d tried to prevent. “I’m sorry, William… I didn’t know—”

He raised a palm and glared at me around it. “Stop. Just save it.” Then he paused, taking two steps menacingly forward. “I thought you were _different.”_

...and inside I screamed _I am_ and _I’m sorry_ , but nothing like that actually materialized… I _wasn’t_ different. I was the same as every other approval-seeking child.

We stared at each other silently until he scoffed and turned… and I watched him disappear into the distance, wishing I was someone different—someone brave.

I have no idea what happened to him after that. I assume his life continued as planned; I assume he eventually met someone nice and wrote a novel and everything was perfect… but… it almost _wasn’t_ —because of me.

 

* * *

           

So as Merrill glares at me, while simultaneously stealing some approximation of my soul, I recall what it feels like to be the bad guy—and immediately remember that **I’m _not_ one anymore**.

“Merrill,” I yell. “I need to talk to Anders. I’m here for him—only him—and I can help.”

She stops whatever she’s doing suddenly and glares, one part suspicious, one part impressed.

“Let me see him,” I repeat.

A moment of silence hovers between us—thick and hazy and almost palpable.

“Fine,” she says eventually. “Come on.”

* * *

 


	10. An Ostrich: Head in the Sand

* * *

“Everyone needs to calm down,” shouts a voice I know. It’s Anders, of course, but my conscious mind won’t let me recognize its timbre right away. It’s so different than what I’m used to.

“We need to settle; the only way to win this is by waiting them out—proving we mean what we say… that this _is_ a peaceful demonstration,” Anders continues.

He doesn’t stop talking until he sees me, coming around the corner. “Dorian, what are you doing here?”

I swallow around a lump in my throat. It hits me all at once that I _missed_ his face—in the months that have passed since the last time I saw it, I almost forgot that it meant something to me, but now he’s here and… maker… he’s beautiful and fierce and wild…

“I’m here to help.” It surprises me to hear the words, actually. I don’t know if they’re true until they hit the air and solidify in the space between us.

“Help us?” he asks, an eyebrow raised.

 _You_ , I correct mentally, but I manage to suppress it as I look around at the throngs of worried faces in our periphery. “Yes, Anders. Please… tell me what’s going on here.”

He nods, but he doesn’t look sure. “Fine… come here.”

 

A few paces away, he leans in toward me, but he’s still looking over my shoulders—one after the other. His jaw flexes and he sighs out a breath before he finally acknowledges me. It’s a piercing look—so strong that I want to avert my eyes, but I don’t. In fact, I blink against it, waiting.

“Our meeting place downtown,” he says quietly. “It was raided last week.”

“Raided?” I repeat. “For what?”

“Drugs, ostensibly.”

I squint at him, incredulous.

“They were looking for _us_ ,” he says, like his meaning is obvious. It certainly isn’t to me. “There have been things like this all over the country in the last couple months, Dorian; haven’t you been paying attention?”

I huff, indignant and petulant, but he’s _right_ : I’ve been an ostrich—head in the sand, avoiding reality.

“They’re rounding us up, Dorian,” he whispers, leaning in even closer.

The proximity feels double-edged: I want to push him away, even as I notice the way he smells. It’s a familiar scent of laundry and soap… it’s a smell I didn’t even know that I knew until I was this close to him again.

“Why would they do that?” I ask. “Who is _they_?”

He scoffs, then, but there’s nothing funny about it; he looks more disappointed than I’ve ever seen him… more disappointed than the night of the election, even. “Forget it, Dorian.”

For a moment, it seems like he’s about to ask me to leave, but when a few scattered whispers rush through the crowd—quiet, but intense—he looks away from me, determined.

A person I can only think of as a henchman runs up to us, then. It might be my imagination, but he seems to walk with a limp like _every_ proper henchman does in stories.

“Yes?” Anders turns his head only fractionally; all his attention is still resting on me, it seems.

“There’s a negotiator outside with a mess of reporters.”

“A negotiator?” I blurt, clearly speaking out of turn, “What do they need to negotiate?”

Anders purses his lips and speaks quietly. “Ostensibly, they’re here because we intercepted a shipment.”

“What kind of shipment?” I ask.

“Genetic testing equipment… on its way to the lab at Meredith Corp…”

“Anders, why would you do that?” I sound exasperated—I can hear it in my voice—but I’m actually just _scared_. Haughtiness has proven an invaluable defense mechanism in my life, but it isn’t today. His face changes into something even less friendly.

“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” says Anders cooly. You can stay here or you can leave, but either way, this isn’t your fight.” He takes several steps closer to me until we’re almost nose-to-nose. I can feel his breath on my cheek. “But for Andraste’s sake, Dorian, if you’re not going to help, stay out of my way.”

 

It seems to take ages to walk back to Merrill at the edge of the encampment. Every step seems to reinforce more solidly that we shouldn’t be doing this… or… _I_ shouldn’t, anyway. When we get to the front, my fears are confirmed in grand fashion: a line of officers in riot gear have pushed the crowds back. I look at Anders without meaning to—he’s the only solid thing in my world.

“Disperse and you won’t be harmed,” says someone with a megaphone. We can’t see her; she’s somewhere behind the line of plastic and metal clad soldiers.

Everyone looks at Anders, but he doesn’t say anything. He drops his chin and sighs out a long, slow, sad breath while the crowd waits—while _I_ wait.

“Anders?” I whisper.

It occurs to me that I’m the closest person to him. Even Hawke, whom I didn’t realize had joined us, isn’t as close—they’re standing in the periphery...in some portion of Anders shadow—it’s huge and powerful. It feels like something safe and bolstering, even though we’re here on the edge. Some insane voice in my head insists that we’re being protected by it—as if he’s emanating something mystical. _Maybe he is._

“Anders? Say something,” I whisper again.

Anders glares at me, making it clear I’m speaking out of turn. Why I’ve been allowed to get this far — to stay here with him — is still a mystery.

“This doesn’t have to end violently,” says the person with megaphone. It sounds even more like a threat than the previous thing. On my _first day_ of working in politics, I would have known not to say the word _violent_ first. It’s a subconscious slip of the most damaging variety.

Merrill backs up toward us, fists clenched at her sides, and whispers without taking her eyes off the line of potential assailants. “Anders, it’s time. It’s time to show everyone.”

“Show everyone _what_?” I snap.

Anders still doesn’t look up; his eyes are shut tight, but something makes me feel like he can see anyway—like he’s more aware of the whole situation than the rest of us combined.

“Come on,” Merrill continues, “It’s just like you wanted; every jerk with a camera in the whole country is here…”

That confuses me further. Anders _hates_ the media—even more than I do. During the campaign he fought me tooth and nail about televised speeches and debates. But even as I look out over the line of mechanized humans with their guns and helmets and shields, I notice she’s right: cameras flash and microphones rise up over the crowd like rotten ears of corn in a vast, dark field.

“Come _on_ ,” says Merrill again.

Then he looks. His eyes snap up to mine with a speed and ferocity I don’t expect and I swear to god they flash with some poorly defined power—the blue light that filled the room when he mended my wound all those months ago. My fingers twitch past the patch of new skin as a reflex—something they do without my permission every time I’m scared now. That skin seems like part of _him_ —something that will never belong to me as long as he’s alive.

...alive.

_Anders. Please. It isn’t safe._

Faster than I can consciously comprehend what’s happening, Anders turns toward the crowd, hand outstretched, and everything changes.

“It’s time,” he says quietly, looking out over the crowd like he was born to do it. He’s a leader; he always was, whether the people would let him do it or not. “It’s time to recognize what has been happening in the shadows for too long,” he continues. “Corporations—and now your government—have colluded to keep a whole population in the dark.” He pauses, looking into the sea of flashbulbs without blinking. “ _Why_? Because what’s unknown is terrifying. Because what can’t be quantified might be a threat… because what _won’t_ be controlled must be dangerous!”

Whispers erupt behind the barricade. Our side—the side I’m standing on… _is it mine_?— stays utterly still.

“But we’re here—we’re people, just like you!” Anders shouts. “And we’re not going to hide anymore.”

 _Silence_.

I’m reticent to move, but a quick glance confirms that Merrill is nodding in his wake, gritting her teeth with a level of righteous indignation I’ve rarely witnessed. Our numbers have grown, too; dozens of haggard-looking people have emerged and are standing shoulder-to-shoulder in Anders’ glory.

...and then Anders raises one hand toward the crowd and that light that I remember with eidetic accuracy begins to grow—faint at first, but soon it’s blinding. The SWAT line trembles in collective shock while the press and onlookers behind it gasp. They yell: _What is it_? _What’s happening_? _Make it stop!_

“We’re here,” repeats Anders. It’s loud, but calm… it’s congressional, if I’m honest… I almost laugh; he would have been _great_ at that job—if only the world were fair. Instead we’re here at the unpredictable ending to a ruined story: Beowulf eaten by Grendel… Hercules defeated by the Hydra.

“We’re here, whether you’re ready or not!” he shouts.

That’s when the first shot is fired. It sails through the air between us and lands just to Anders’ left—so fast I don’t even see who did it until it’s over. The only thing I _do_ see is Merrill—stumbling backward, clutching her chest.

“Oh god,” I breathe. “Anders,” and then I’m yelling over the din. “Anders! _Stop_!”

The flame erupts from his palm before I can get my hand onto his shoulder—before I can even manage to finish screaming—but it isn’t the last. Magic erupts everywhere all at once. A stream of ice whizzes past my ear as a long vine sprouts from the concrete.

The emanating calm evaporates as quickly as it came. In fact, I wonder if it was ever really there—maybe that’s just the feeling of being near Anders… _for me_. I’ve never really believed in such things—in becoming someone stronger because of someone else—but I never believed in magic, either… and yet…

The SWAT team isn’t holding back now. Several cans of tear gas land in our midst and I’m choking on something that smells like poison and threatens to blind me if I don’t get below it, but I will myself to stay upright; I can’t lose sight of Anders. It feels like my life depends on it.

Meanwhile, Hawke is trying to drag someone toward the interior of our encampment—someone bleeding and badly mangled, but still flinging fireballs. I can’t see who it is, but it reminds me of that kid—that kid who started the fire, that kid who _was_ truly dangerous. By being on _this_ side of the barricade, what am I a party to?

I blink a few times, straining to see. Anders appears out of the smoke again, just five feet away. He’s moving with such grace, it’s hard to remember that I once saw him slumped in a coffee shop chair with straggly hair and mud on his worn-out boots. It’s also hard to remember the _other_ Anders, though—the one who wore suits and did what I said he should. This is someone new.

He ducks as another canister flies past him and turns with a fury like nothing I’ve ever seen. I want to reach out—to stop him before this all gets even worse; I can see the chain of events, as if from outside myself… everything is escalating and I’m afraid of what this is about to become.

“Anders! Stop!” I scream again, but it’s no use. A bolt of lightning cracks right in front of my face, effectively cutting a hole in the SWAT team. It’s so close, it burns both my hands and I scream out in pain. The only question is where it came from; everyone looks as confused as I feel.

“Dorian!” says someone… and it’s a voice I know—a voice I _love_ —but I don’t have enough time. I only hear the gunshot and see the blood erupt from my guts in syncopated spurts before the lights go out. Something hits my head, hard enough to deafen me… I can’t… I ca—

                                                              ... _can’t_ …

                                                                                    see…

                                                                                                     ...any...thing……… el...se...

* * *

 


	11. Not One of Them

* * *

It’s twelve hours later that I finally wake up. It happens in the early morning, like these things so frequently do — before any well-wishers or loved ones are awake to witness it. Except — there’s someone here with me.

“Anders?” I croak. My first word — voiced without thinking.

“Hi Dorian,” he says quietly. He’s not looking at me and his face is in shadow, but I’d know him anywhere, even in profile — even in the dark, which is where we seem to be.

“Where am I?” I ask. I try to sit up as I’m talking, but it’s virtually impossible. The world swims, even upon the impetus.

“Whoa,” he says suddenly, putting a palm against my chest. Then he laughs, “I’ve got you.”

He’s got me? I don’t know what it means, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything I like so much. I’m here — with Anders — and he’s _got_ me. It’s a promise; it’s safety; it’s _new_.

 

* * *

 

I’m no stranger to the feeling of free fall. It seems to accompany growing up in our modern age, actually. I remember it most poignantly on the advent of my 18th birthday.

“It’s your birthday, Dorian; get up.” Before I opened my eyes, I imagined I was 10 years old and about to eat cake — that the neighbors would all be there, laughing and smiling… that I was about to finally get a pony to commemorate my birth.

—but then I opened my eyes.

“Dorian, get out of bed,” said my mother.

I haven’t said much about her, I realize. she’s only a silent partner in a lot of my stories — my father’s henchman — but that wasn’t the case that day. That particular morning, she was acting completely of her own volition.

“Mother?” I yawned and blinked at her through beams of sunlight filtering through my bedroom windows. My birthday occurs each year at the transitional point between summer and autumn — when the weather is unpredictable and the morning sun shines at almost a right angle to the earth.

“Dorian, I need you to pack your things,” she said.

“What things?” I blinked a few times. My internal narrator insisted I was still dreaming — something brought on by stress and exacerbated by my pervasive fear of aging. “Mother… are you _all right_?”

She shook her head. “Dorian, we’re leaving; today.”

“Leaving?”

Until this very moment, I had never considered that my mother might be unhappy. Well, let me rephrase: I knew she was unhappy, I just didn’t know it _mattered_ to her. To me, as a late teenager, it seemed as though ‘unhappy’ was just one of her many attributes — as inextricably linked to her _self_ as brown eyes or a love of opera.

“Okay…” I said quietly. It wasn’t like me to acquiesce so easily, but something about her tone made me sure: this wasn’t the time to argue. “Where are we going?”

She shook her head. “Pack first.”

The activity was rather mindless. I threw all my things into the bottom of a large duffle bag without much thought — something I knew I’d regret when I had no actual ‘outfits’ later on, but I couldn’t seem to care. A change was in the air.

“All right, I’m done,” I said. In looking back at my bedroom, I noticed she’d made the bed in a cursory way — pulled the sheets up to the pillowcases. I still don’t know why she did it.

“Let’s go.” She opened the door silently and left it ajar behind us. Each of her footfalls was virtually silent… and because of this, I’m still not sure how he caught us — my father. Maybe he knew in some peripheral way what she was planning or maybe he just happened to be in the right place at the right time, but either way… he was standing in front of the door when we came around the corner.

I can’t remember the words he said. He was furious; I know that. To my father, furious manifested as _quiet_ ; furious sounded terse. What I _do_ remember was the conversation I had with my mother an hour later. She came to my room almost as quietly as we’d left it together before, but there was no hurry in her steps.

“Mom, what happened?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Nothing. I… I don’t know what I was thinking…”

I squinted, feeling indignation I didn’t know I was capable of — especially not _for her_. But yesterday, I thought she was someone different. Today she’s on _my_ side — or at least… she _was_.

“Mom?”

She blinked, looking dazed.

“Mom, we can still leave; you don't owe him anything,” I said, scared of the words, even as they formed in my mouth.

She looked up at me and tried to smile, although her eyes were glassy… and that’s when she said something I’ll always remember — something that haunts me even now: “It’s too late for me.”

I gaped, at an utter loss for words.

“—but it’s not too late for _you_ , Dorian. You can still leave… you can still _live_.”

For the first time in my life, I saw my mother as a person — small and scared… and just as trapped as I felt. And here she was, trying to get me out the very moment she could — when I was technically an adult, incapable of being ‘kidnapped’ by a parent — but before ‘too late’ closed in around me too. Maybe she really did love me, after all.

Of course, nothing stayed good between us. She retreated back into her predictably harsh exterior not long after that and I never saw that kinder version of her again… but it was there once... and it made a difference:

I _did_ get out.

 

* * *

 

In the little room I don’t recognize, lying on an uncomfortable, lumpy bed, I feel a similar transition happen: Anders changes from the person I mentored on the campaign trail to someone who is caring _for me_. And I don’t trust it because life has taught me that nothing good ever lasts, but god… _I want it to._

 _“_ Where are we?” I ask.

“Somewhere safe,” says Anders. “It’s um… I don’t mean to be cryptic, but the situation is a bit unusual.”

My memories are mixed up. I can’t seem to keep the chronology right and I squint into the air, trying to reconstruct each piece. “What happened?”

Anders clicks his tongue. He produces a damp cloth and lays it over my head. Its therapeutic value seems largely psychological, but I let him do it anyway.

“Is Merrill all right?” I ask. It’s one of the few things I remember — the beginning of the fight… the look of shock on her face.

He nods. “She will be.” At that moment, he looks down at his hands. It’s only transient, but it makes me remember: he had fire.

“I didn’t know you could do that,” I say, without thinking.

“I can do a lot of things; it doesn’t mean I always do… I learned to control it. So will you.”

_What?_

“What did you say?” I ask.

Then he stops, fixing me with a stern glare. “I said… you will too… learn to control it, I mean.”

“Control what?”

A curtain of silence falls between us; time seems to stretch as he peers at me through slitted eyes. Then he snorts, shakes his head, and laughs bitterly. “Forget it.”

I’m going to argue, but when I try to sit up again in indignance, that sick feeling washes over me even more strongly than before.

“I’ve got to go for a while. If you need anything, just call out; someone will be outside all night,” he says. Then he stands and, without looking back, leaves the room.

I’m left rather dumbfounded, just like that whole episode with my mother made me feel for years. It took such a long time to wrap my head around the idea that people can spend a lifetime denying intrinsic truths. My mother was unhappy; my mother wanted to leave... but if I asked her today, she would deny it. In fact, when I tried to speak to her about that day in my twenties — a full ten years later, in fact — she denied that it even _happened_ , waving her palm in the air and laughing like I’d just told the world’s most ridiculous story. It hurt at the time, but now I think I understand it. It probably took all the bravery she ever had to try to leave with me that day, and when it came down to it, that failure broke her. Denial was her last defense.

With that in mind, I remember a promise I made to myself years ago: to be stronger than she was when faced with uncomfortable truths. It’s what I built my entire political career on, actually — perseverance above all else. So now, sitting in this darkened little room alone, wondering what happened and what Anders meant, I find myself with an unsettling desire to look down at my hands — weren’t they burnt before? Are they now? Something in me resists. I don’t want to look; I don’t _dare_ , but it happens. They hurt, but they aren’t singed… and that’s when I remember… the bolt of lightning.

_No. It can’t be._

Suddenly, fourteen imaginary voices start screaming at me in my head. They run the gambit from utter shock to terror to staunch disbelief. The loudest voice screams that I’m an idiot while another makes excuses about why I didn’t know. Namely, because such a thing isn’t even possible… well… maybe for someone it is — someone _different_. But, I’m not one of them. I’m not a _freak_. I’m not… I’m not…

_Oh god, I am._

A thousand memory fragments cement into one terrifying realization. A pit forms in my gut and before I realize it’s going to happen, I vomit down the front of my shirt. It’s mostly bile since I still never ate anything more than almonds, but the smell only intensifies my nausea.

Then the door swings open again. It’s Anders. “I just forgot my—”

I try to shrink into the darkness — I don’t want him to see me like this, but it’s too late.

“Maker…” He’s at my side a second later. “Dorian, what happened?”

I don’t have any words for this — I don’t believe any of it. Even if I did, I wouldn’t know where to start.

“It’s all right, Dorian,” he says quietly, wiping a rag across my lips, where the stomach acid has begun to burn. “You’re not the first person who has reacted like this…”

_Like what?_

“...but don’t worry; I’ve _got_ you,” he says for the second time tonight. And although I don’t believe anything right now — although my entire world seems ruined and reformed — I believe _him_.

* * *

 


	12. Part of Something Bigger

* * *

For the next few hours, I fade in and out of consciousness. I’m not sure what time it is; there is no discernible clock and the windows are so caked in grime that I can’t see the sun. I’m sure time is passing, though, and as it does I feel myself losing touch with the sense of safety I had when Anders was in the room. He’s gone now. I’m not sure where he went, but I know I wish he would come back — even amidst the confusion of dreams and reality.

I’ve always said that the best things in my life have risen from the ashes of my old beliefs. I keep repeating it to myself all night in the safe house — every time I’m awake and even when I’m not. I’m calling it a safe house because I don’t know how else to describe it. Hideout? Lair? It’s a piece of shit; I know that.

“Hey?”

There’s a hand on my shoulder suddenly. I hope beyond hope that it’s Anders, but when I open my eyes, I discover it’s Hawke instead.

“What’s going on?” I ask, sitting up. “Where’s Anders?”

Hawke shrugs. “He had to… settle something… He wanted me to check in on you, though.”

“Oh…” A shiver runs through me, but I suppress it. I’m at the stage where I’m holding myself together through sheer force of will. It’s the thing I do when the world is crashing down around me — become my own bulwark. But Anders had said he’d _help_ me, didn’t he? Isn’t that what ‘I’ve got you’ means?

“Is he coming back soon?” I ask.

Hawke bites their bottom lip. “I’m not sure when…” then they clear their throat. “But I’m sure it will be as soon as possible. He… he cares about what happens to us here… to _you_.”

I nod to them, but I’m not sure what it’s supposed to mean. It can’t begin to capture what I’m feeling.

“I just wanted to make sure you got this,” says Hawke, producing my phone. “Just… don’t tell anyone where we are… ok?”

“I can’t; no one has told me.”

That nets me a small laugh, but they’re already walking back toward the door. “I’ll be out here if you need me, all right?”

“Thanks, Hawke.”

 

My phone has at least seventy notifications when I flip it over. The light is bright and it hurts my eyes to look.

There are the usual things: emails from political contacts far and wide, wanting to understand what happened. Someone thinks they saw me on TV; another one heard my name on the radio. More alarming are the emails from reporters — they border on threatening, although they are ostensibly benign interview requests.

Only one thing warrants my immediate attention, though: Alistair.

_Ring. Ring._

“Dorian?” Alistair gasps. “My god, Dorian; is it you?”

“Hi.”

He takes in a shaky breath; it sounds like he might be on the verge of tears, and mysteriously, so am I.

“I’m okay,” I begin. “I’m… well, I’m safe.”

He asks the predictable question I’m dreading: “Where are you?”

“I... don’t know.” It suddenly seems reasonable that Anders wouldn’t tell me where we were — Alistair sounds so worried I might have told him.

“Are you hurt?”

“No…” I lie. Looking down at my chest, I actually don’t know _how_ hurt I am, though. Certainly it was worse before, wasn’t it? “I’m okay. I’m with Anders.”

“What? I’m calling the police,” he says.

“Stop it,” I interrupt.

“You’re with a terrorist,” says Alistair.

So that’s what they’re calling him… terrorist. I grit my teeth against all possible implications and speak through the vice of my jaw. “Anders isn’t the bad guy here. You don’t know what’s going on.”

“I saw it pretty clearly on the news, Dor…” He’s speaking quickly, but there isn’t a hint of anger in his voice. Yes, he sounds indignant, but he also sounds _terrified_. “I saw… what those people can do.”

_Those people._

I know it shouldn’t make me angry, but it does. Just a few hours ago, I was convinced that there was a hard dividing line between _us_ and _them_ … but now everything’s different. Now, I’m one of them. And I might not have said it aloud a minute ago, but here — faced with that phrase… _those people_ — I’m suddenly brave.

“Al, I’m not coming home,” I say flatly. “I’m… I’m staying here.”

“What?”

“You heard me.” My voice doesn’t sound like I mean for it to; it’s much harsher and it seems like I’m blaming him for something, but I don’t know how else to _be_. I’m drawing a line in the sand. “And I trust him.”

“You _trust_ him?” Alistair asks, suddenly incredulous, “After what he’s done? What he made you a party to?”

I scoff. It’s worse than Alistair deserves — he’s just afraid and destabilized, same as I was a few hours ago — but I can’t seem to give him a chance to acclimate. Something in me _won’t_. It feels like the same part that insists he won’t understand, even as I think about telling him the whole truth.

“I can’t comprehend why you’re okay with this… people _died_ , Dorian,” adds Alistair.

“And I’m sorry about that, but Anders didn’t have a choice; he was trying to be peaceful,” I argue.

“Dorian, he caused an explosion,” says Alistair.

“Is that what you think?” I ask. It couldn’t be farther than the experience I had, standing right next to him, but I don’t know how to explain it; I don’t feel like I have the ability while preserving my own secret. Just these last few sentences have proven my inner narrator right: he could _never_ understand.

“I have to go,” I snap.

“What? Dorian, don’t—“

I hang up and throw my phone down on the bed next to me. I’m furious and sweating all of a sudden. My shirt feels stuck to me and I pull it off over my head in a huff. That’s when I discover that I’m not injured. In fact, the blood that still stains my skin is utterly dry — a remnant of what was once a gaping hole in my side. _Anders._

 

There have only been a few times in my life when I felt like I was part of something bigger. The most notable have all been associated with my career — in fact, it might be one of the reasons I stuck with politics as long as I did — but none have been as poignant as the first Mayoral campaign I ever worked on. Our candidate was the incumbent, but the campaign had been terribly mishandled and he was slated to lose. It was the year I turned 28… maybe the year I became who I am today.

“Mayor Campbell’s office. How can I help you?” I answered the phone like I always did back then — brightly, although I probably hadn’t slept in thirty-six hours.

“I’m looking for Dorian Pavus?” said the voice on the other end.

“This is he.”

The person laughed. “I like that — perfect grammar even at eleven o’clock at night.”

“Thanks… Can I help you?”

“This is Brie Trevelyan,” said the person. Then she stopped talking; dead air crackled across the line.

“Okay… and what can I do for you? Are you calling to make a campaign donation?”

Brie cleared her throat. “Um… no. Apparently things are more disoranged over there than I thought…” she sighed and clicked her tongue before continuing. “Listen, Dorian, you’ve been great…”

“At _what_?” I was young enough then that interrupting seemed like self-preservation. I already recognized the preamble to bad news.

“You’ve been a big asset to the campaign, I mean… but… well, they’ve called me in to shape things up,” she said. “I’m actually just calling to schedule an urgent strategy session tomorrow morning with the team.”

“I can schedule that for you, but Mayor Campbell has another meeting he can’t miss at that time,” I said sternly.

She took a breath like she was going to say something else, but stopped midway.

 _Silence again_.

“Who _are_ you?” I asked, suddenly. It meant ‘who do you _think_ you are,’ and we both knew it, I think.

Then she laughed — gentle and accommodating, although I wasn’t hiding my incredulity. “I’m a campaign manager… _your_ campaign manager… if you agree to stay on.”

“Stay on?” I was sure this conversation was going another way; it seemed like she was trying to fire me a minute ago.

“Well, you seem determined to make yourself indispensable,” she laughed again. “That’s the kind of gumption we need in this realm. Schedule the meeting for 8:30 tomorrow morning — with or without the Mayor — and I’ll give you a shot… if you’re this committed in person, we’ll find a place for you.”

 

Brie wasn’t paying me lip service, either. From that moment on, she made sure I was part of every major decision in the Mayor’s re-election campaign. She brought me into meetings I had no business observing, green as I was, and helped me see the places where I needed to improve if I was going to be great one day. She asked for my help when it counted. It might have been the first time in my life that I felt like my opinions mattered. But the key was that she trusted me, even when I hadn’t completely proven that I deserved it. Her implicit expectation was that I would do everything I said I would — that I was _capable_ and committed and good — and so I _did_ and I _was_.

 

So the moment Anders bursts into my room, wind in his hair and a wild, dangerous look in his eye, I know I’m ready to help him — because I already trust him, because I already believe he’s capable of _everything_ he said he was… and ultimately, because _both_ we’re part of something bigger.

* * *

 


	13. Imperious Compensations

* * *

“So that’s when you knew?” I ask. “That you were _different_?”

He nods, staring off into the distance. We’ve migrated to the floor, even though it’s disgustingly dirty — so is everything else; it’s not much different. Now we’re sitting shoulder to shoulder against the wall in the fading light from the window outside.

“Yeah, I was only twelve…”

I stare at him, wide-eyed.

“For a long time, I just wanted all of this to _go away_.”  He sighs. “I felt so guilty. I mean, I didn’t _mean_ to set the building on fire — or, certainly, that there were people inside, but still… their deaths were on me. They still _are_.”

We’re silent for long enough that my mind starts to wander back to the only _other_ kid I know of who controls flames. It occurs to me, then, that he might have turned out like Anders if he’d had just a tiny bit of _something_ different. I don’t know what that is, though.

“So how did you figure out that you could heal people, too?”

Anders laughs mirthlessly, “I think it was a kind of penance.”

“What do you mean?”

“I felt so… horrible…” He runs a hand through his hair. It’s too long again, I notice. “I kept going back to the site of the fire for a long time afterward… _years_ , actually.” He swallows audibly. “The Anderfels are kind of a shitshow, generally speaking, so the burned foundation just sat there for _ages_ — a scorched reminder of what happened.”

I nod, but not because I understand it; I’m just being supportive. Tevinter is so obsessed with appearances that something like that might have been deconstructed and rebuilt within a month.

“...and one day I heard a little sound inside what used to be the entryway, I think,” he continues. “I went over to check it out and found a little kitten stuck between two old rotted boards. It was injured and badly malnourished; I don’t know how long it had been there. But I felt like it was the culmination of what I’d done — a casualty of my temper. And that’s when it happened: suddenly I felt something — deep in my bones — and I saw this…”

He picks up his hands and shows me the palms, glowing blue.

“...and the kitten turned into my first cat.” He smiles at the memory. “I had to give him away when I joined the army, but… still… it was when I learned that all of this can be a gift, too.”

“You’re so good at perspective,” I blurt.

He laughs. “No, I’ve just been through some shit.” He sighs and smiles. “It’s getting late.”

“Yeah… I thought so.” I fight an urge to reach out for him. I’m afraid he’s going to leave again, I realize.

There’s a feeling I get sometimes when I’m around Anders — I used to get it on the campaign trail too. It’s like he wants to get away from me but he doesn’t know how, so he stays resentfully. It’s like I’ve suddenly crossed into the area of human interaction he considers ‘too close,’ even though _I_ haven’t changed my behavior at all. It’s something I bring out in _him_ , I think. It used to scare me, actually, because it’s unpredictable in its appearance and its duration. But it’s not in my nature to guess at what people want — to change in response to vague cues. In fact, that’s what I hated about Tevinter society: all the implication… all the guessing.

I decide to ask. “Will you stay with me for a while?”

He looks at me, seemingly perplexed.

“Just… for a bit. I know I’m not supposed to admit weakness, but I feel awful and I’m low-grade terrified.” I laugh. “It’ll be worse if you go.”

To my surprise, he settles against the wall further. “Okay… for a little while.” Then he snaps his fingers and lights a candle a few feet away. The flame leaps to life and fills the room with a warm glow.

“Neat trick.”

He laughs, looking up at me. “You could do it too.”

I squint at him. “Fire?”

He shakes his head. “No, but electricity does the same thing, if you learn how to use it.” Then he laughs, “You could even light an _actual_ bulb without melting it, I bet.”

I blink at him — one part disbelief, one part excitement.

“Come here; give me your hand.” He reaches across my lap to take it. It makes me flinch, but I relax as he uncurls my fingers. “Okay, picture a spark.”

I squint at my fingertips and imagine a blue arc of electricity. Nothing happens.

Anders laughs. “You’ll give yourself wrinkles, concentrating that hard.”

“Take that back,” I joke.

We smile at each other. It isn’t lost on me that he hasn’t let my hand go yet.

“Okay, so think about what a spark is like — what it _feels_ like…”

I roll my eyes. “My experience with sparks is extremely limited… I didn’t even know I’d made one; remember?”

“No, think about a regular spark… like…” He scoots a little closer to me across the floor and gestures with his free hand out in front of us. “It’s cold outside — the beginning of winter, here in the south — and there’s a fire roaring right over there…” He points to a dirty bucket of water in the corner of the room, but I can _almost_ see it anyway. “And everything’s warm and cozy… including your feet that are in thick wool socks… and you pad across the carpet, going for the metal tea kettle…” He pauses again. “But the second you touch that damn thing, you pull your hand back because _shit_ , that hurts.”

At the exact second he stops talking, he drops my hand. At first, I’m not sure why, but I figure it out a second later: _I did it._

“Ouch!” he says, pulling his fingers into his mouth. “Yeah… that’s it, though… it’s always a bit tougher to control at the beginning, but… you’ll get there.”

I feel my face crack into a grin — a genuine thing that I’m not used to the feel of on my face — but before I can thank him, the door bursts open. It’s Merrill.

“Congressman Rutherford has been assassinated.”

 

Everyone in Tevinter remembers where they were when Archon Davan was killed. My mother once told me she wept for days, which was something I couldn’t _imagine_ at the time; it felt more likely that she was instrumental in his death.

I was 18 that year. It was the same year that everything else seemed to change in my world, actually, which might have contributed to the feeling of ambivalence I had about the whole thing. But the news cycle didn’t die down for weeks; I remember that.

In those days, Luciana was still employed at my parents’ house. She wasn’t tutoring me anymore, but she was _around_ — I’m not entirely sure why. In any case, I saw her sitting in front of the TV one day and was arrested by the look on her face.

“Lu… are you okay?” I asked. We had become rather familiar by that point. I thought of her as sort of an ally.

She quickly stood and wiped the normal side of her face, which seemed tearstained. The _other_ side always looked vaguely wet to me, so I rarely looked at it. (My inability to look directly at ugly things says much more about me than it does about her.) Nevertheless, it was among the first times I’d seen her look upset; she was usually so stoic.

“Lu, what’s going on?” I repeated, stepping closer.

“It’s a day worth remembering,” she said quietly, straightening as she spoke. It was like every word made her taller.

“I didn’t think you cared about politics,” I said.

She peered at me through her good eye and quirked the functional side of her mouth. “This is more than politics; this is a matter of life… and death… and those are important no matter who you are.”

I didn’t understand what she meant even vaguely. I imagine I must have cocked my head to the side and squinted at her — it’s an _imperious_ thing I do to compensate when I’m confused.

“Dorian, eventually, you’ll have to learn to be gracious,” she said then. “Maybe it isn’t today, but someday you’ll know exactly what I mean.”

 

 _Today, I do_.

“Merrill, what are you talking about?” I ask.

Anders stands, bracing himself against the wall behind us.

“It just came through. They’re calling it an act of terror,” she says.

“Who is?” I ask.

“Everyone…”

We’re all silent for a moment, although I don’t know why. I have a million more questions; my mouth just won’t work.

“We need to get out of here,” says Anders suddenly. He steps away from the wall — away from _me_ — and walks toward her.

“And go where?” asks Merrill.

“I don’t know yet… but they’ll be looking for us.”

“For us?” I ask, trailing him by a step. “Why?”

He turns to look at me and sighs. “The timing is suspicious.”

He’s right. It is. “Nevertheless, we didn’t actually _do_ anything,” I say. “We’ve been here the whole time.”

It’s as I say these words that I realize that isn’t true: _we_ have not been here the whole time — only I have.

“I mean… we aren’t involved…” I say. It’s actually a question, but I laugh around the words so that they will sound like something I’m sure about. Scoffing is a great coping mechanism, in my experience.

Anders doesn’t say anything — doesn’t even seem to be breathing. Merrill purses her lips.

“We’re _not_ involved, right?” I ask, getting louder.

Then Anders turns — unbelievably slowly. “ _You’re_ not.”

* * *

 


	14. Neither accident, nor illness

* * *

“I don’t understand; what’s the point of all of this?!” I’m running a hand through my hair and smoothing the skin of my face. It’s a function of fear, not vanity.

Merrill glares at me, but doesn’t say anything. She’s looking at Anders; he’s her leader… in fact, I would have let him lead us all… I feel sick.

“I can’t believe I trusted you,” I snarl.

He raises an eyebrow. “No one asked you to do that.”

I scoff, at a loss for words. Merrill grits her teeth and leaves; the door slams hard enough to shake the foundation, but I barely feel it. I’ve begun to pace back and forth across the dirty room. It was so warm a minute ago — in my chest, in my gut, in every place that counted.

“Anders, you were a _medic_ ,” I say, stopping mid-stride to look at him. “You _saved_ people. I heard one of your army buddies say you even saved people _on the other side_ during the war… remember that fucking press tour? Where I got all your mates to come out and talk about you? You didn’t want to see them, but god — Anders — they thought you were amazing.”

He swallows, visibly grimacing. I've struck a nerve, but I don’t stop there.

“You had _everyone_ fooled,” I gasp. “ _I_ thought you were amazing, too. Who the hell _are_ you?”

“I’m exactly the person I always was — your emotional editing and haircuts aside,” he says. “You saw me as who you wanted me to be, Dorian. I told you it wouldn’t work; I told you they wouldn’t listen.”

“You didn’t give them a chance!” I shout, exasperated. “You didn’t do anything you should have after the campaign ended! You could have run again; you could have finished your goddamn book; you could have given a _fucking_ press conference, for Andraste’s sake!”

“We are past that; people are _dying_ , Dorian.”

 _Dying_. The word seems to stab me.

“And there was no way to stop this — the corporate greed, the farce of individual freedom in this neofascist hellscape,” Anders shouts. “It was going to grow and grow; we were only _days_ from legislation to make people like me and you _fugitives,_ anyway… you _know_ it.”

I swallow, losing steam. My mind resists it, but somewhere deep inside I believe him. I always have, I realize.

“And I understand that you aren’t like me,” he continues, stepping closer. “That’s why I left you out of it; I didn’t want to see you get mixed up in this — I still don’t. So you have one chance: the police are, no doubt, on their way… they’re going to arrest me and _every_ other mage in this building… and I— I don’t know what will happen after that… so… you can leave. _Right now_.

 

I’ve never been one for closets… the _emotional_ variety, anyway; I _do_ have a lot of clothes for the physical ones... but I can barely remember the period of my life when I was _in_ a closet. By the time I knew that boys were _a_ _thing_ for me, I was already telling everyone — for attention, if for nothing else.

I guess I should explain… to me, attention is attention — at least when I was young — and it doesn’t make a difference if it’s positive or negative. I’d _like_ to be known for my many positive qualities, but I’ll take _known at all_ over obscurity. Unfortunately, with regards to my burgeoning sexuality, I had to settle for the latter. So I wore that _Scarlet A_ like a badge of honor. I let everyone know that I was _that kid_ with the dubious sexuality and unbridled disregard for convention.

And, because I was rather myopic in my youth, I didn’t understand anyone who felt a different way — who hid in shadows of their own design.

That is, until _right now_. No one knows what I am. When Anders and Merrill and Hawke and everyone else are gone — in jail or worse — I’ll be utterly anonymous. I can go back to politics. I can go back to teaching. I can call Alistair and get him to pick me up right now and never look back… I could move to the country — buy a house and make sure it has space for a whole library. I could get married and have a bunch of kids… I could live the rest of my days in alacrity and die when I’m grey and wisened…

_...but…_

...that isn’t who I am. It never has been. Closets aren’t made for me.

 

“Anders… I…” I suck my bottom lip into my mouth and bite it hard enough to sting. “I think what you’ve done is reprehensible.”

He bristles, but doesn’t say anything.

“I’m _horrified_ and _shocked_ … but… I see — I see _you_.”

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even blink.

“Tell me why you did this; what does it mean?” I whisper, suddenly afraid of my own voice. “Tell me what it means and I’ll try to see it just like you do.”

“He was about to enact a series of raids,” says Anders quietly. “They were going to be performed under the guise of disease prevention — my sources said they would be extensive.”

I nod, trying to understand.

“...and they would result in contagion holding areas — as big as arenas and just as numerous… but for _us_ — for people like us…” he says. “We’re talking about a holocaust here, Dorian. I couldn’t do _nothing_.”

“Where’s your proof?” I ask.

“I have a list of names and addresses and satellite photos of two of the Ferelden facilities,” he says, “as well as floor plans that show potential infrastructure for mass execution — things like we’ve never seen.”

My skin has grown cold and I’m mysteriously sweating. My shirt sticks to my arms, even as I reach out to touch Anders’ arm. I don’t understand what I’m doing; it’s involuntary.

“I wanted to tell you,” Anders adds.

Without knowing why, I blurt, “Who gave you the photos?”

“They were anonymous…” he says, and I’m about to take him at his word, but he opens his mouth again and draws in a small breath, “but… I know who they came from: _Alistair_.”

“ _What_?” I gasp. My fingers are twirled in the fabric of Anders’ shirt, at the crease of his elbow and I know I’m holding on too hard, but I can’t let go; my hand feels like a claw. _My_ Alistair?

Anders nods. “He’s been feeding us information for months.”

“But… he…” I sputter. “He was so scared when I talked to him; he acted like he didn’t trust you.”

“He doesn’t,” cautions Anders. “He warned me against getting you involved in this every time we met over the last half a year.”

“Half a year?” I repeat.

Anders nods again. “At great risk to himself, I might add.”

“Why did he do it?” I’m not asking Anders; I’m not even really _asking_ — my mind has slipped sideways. I don’t even know where I am anymore.

“Because his mother was one of us — one of our greatest allies, in fact.”

“His mother?” I remember the pictures on the walls of his hallway. She’s not in any of them. I’ve never even seen her face, but I can imagine it: his eyes, the determination he always wears. “She’s dead,” I blurt.

Anders purses his lips and I instantly understand. There was no accident — no illness. She was one of us… and this has been going on longer than I even realized. We were _something_ before I was even born. Moreover — for the first time in my life — I’m part of _a something_.

“Anders, I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know — everything… I’m sorry this is where we live. I’m sorry I ever tried to get you involved in this world… this political quagmire…” I say, not making any sense.

We stare at each other, eyes locked, drinking in the silence.

“Are you leaving?” he asks, finally.

“No.”

And with that, he reaches out for my fingers, where they’re still latched into the fabric of his shirt and _holds_ them in his hand. “Thank you.”

* * *

 


	15. Not at all Charming, but Sincere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is it; the last minute.

* * *

I was arrested once. I was fifteen years old and drunk on a roof at boarding school. Normally, boarding schools try not to let their students get caught up with the law — it makes the _school_ look bad — but in this case, they couldn’t help it.

“Come down, Dorian! Maker!” shouted my roommate. He was a short, round kid with terrible penmanship and a penchant for picking his nose in public. As you can imagine, I _loathed_ him. In fact, I can’t recall his name — a perfect example of selective memory.

“Dorian, I’m going to call the Dean!” he shouted again.

I couldn’t be dissuaded, though. I teetered on the edge of the roof, brandishing a half-empty bottle of Antivan Whiskey. Even at fifteen, I knew what it was to be drunk. I didn’t like it, but I’d been shown enough examples of alcohol-as-medicine in my youth to know that oblivion is sometimes preferable.

“This is your last chance, Dorian!” he threatened.

And _still_ I persisted. You see, on that very day, I’d decided that I didn’t like that school. I didn’t like _any_ of the other kids there. I didn’t like my parents. I didn't like my home. I didn’t like my _life_. So I got unbelievably drunk on the Campus Librarian’s special reserve, climbed to the roof, and contemplated jumping. I _thought_ it was the lowest point in my young life — until later that night when they slapped me in cuffs and threw me in holding.

The moment they closed the door, I knew I’d made a horrible mistake: I should have jumped.

“Who’re you?” bellowed someone.

I looked up, blearily, to behold one of the largest people I’d ever seen — big blue eyes and grey-green skin.

“Dorian...?” I answered.

“Well, _are_ you or _aren’t_ you?” he asked, laughing.

“Uh… Dorian.” I cleared my throat, emphasizing definitiveness. “That’s my name.”

“And what are you doing here?” he asked.

It seemed sort of personal, so I defaulted to sarcasm. “Oh, just passing the time,” I snarked.

“Me too,” he said, winking. There was something different about one of his eyes, I noticed. It was a little cloudy; it reminded me of Luciana. I shivered.

“What’s _your_ name?” I asked.

“I’m called The Iron Bull,” he said, smiling lopsidedly.

“Sounds like more of a title…” I groused, folding my arms across my chest and leaning backward against the wall. I’d already decided he wasn’t a threat to me. In fact, despite the way he looked, I was starting to think _he_ was just a kid, too.

“Bull for short,” he added.

“Nice to meet you, I guess…” I rolled my eyes — a gesture of derision he didn’t deserve — and resigned to ignore him. Strangely, he let me for the better part of an hour. Maybe he knew what I needed in some intrinsic way; I can’t be sure.

 

“Dorian Pavus?” called a guard, eventually. My eyes shot open and I jumped. “You get one phone call.”

“Good luck,” said Bull.

I sneered at him before following the guard through the door and picking up the receiver. I was highly aware of how Bull’s eyes trailed me all the way. More troubling, though, was what to do next. I didn’t have anyone to call.

I looked up and down the hallway, trying to ascertain if anyone else was watching me dial. When I was fairly certain all the cops had looked away, I mimed dialing a random series of ten numbers and promptly hung up.

“Guess no one’s home. I’ll try again in the morning,” I called, shrugging.

The cops — nonplussed and utterly unimpressed by this _fine_ piece of acting — ushered me back into the cell and closed the door.

_Waiting. Again._

“So… why didn’t you call anyone?” asked Bull.

“Who says I didn’t?” I snapped.

“That wasn’t the right area code. I’m pretty sure your parents don’t live in the textile district,” he said.

I pursed my lips, trying to think, but I wasn’t fast enough; he’d caught me. I wasn’t drunk anymore, but my head felt like cotton. Now that the alcohol had worn off, I was again facing my dismal future — or my mortality.

“Fine. I didn’t call. What’s it to you?”

“Nothing. It just seems like a weird choice — kid like you’s gotta have twelve lawyers on speed dial…”

Bull laughed and I did too, despite myself. I was _completely screwed_ and I knew it.

“I just don’t want my parents to know…” I sighed and wrapped my arms around myself tighter. They felt like the only thing holding me together. “They already hate me.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” said Bull.

I raised an eyebrow. “You haven’t met them…”

He laughed again — an inappropriate, but welcome, gesture of camaraderie.

“I can relate,” he said, finally.

“Really? I thought you people didn’t have families?”

Then he _really_ laughed. “And I thought _you people_ weren’t overtly prejudiced… you know, only behind closed doors.”

I snorted. “Sorry.”

“Naw, it’s all right…” He turned so he could look at me eye to eye. “It’s a little different yes… but… family’s more than blood, that’s all I’m saying. You pick the people you want to be around and sometimes they aren’t who you’re related to.”

I squinted. I couldn’t understand him at all. At that point in my life, all I’d ever learned is that blood trumps everything. _Lineage is life_ may as well have been on my family crest. “I don’t understand.”

“Blood is one thing — a few inherited diseases and this crooked smile,” he pointed to himself and laughed again. “But that’s where it ends. You pick your people based on what _matters_ — what you care about keeping and what you want to change.”

I opened my mouth, ready to ask a bevy of questions, when another guard showed up to wrench open the cell door. “Kid, you made bail.”

“Me?” I turned, confused.

“Yeah, your dad’s here. School called him.”

I turned back to Bull, biting my lip, all semblance of pretence gone.

“It’ll be okay, Dorian. Just figure out what you care about; the rest will fall into place,” he said.

I never saw him again, but _today_ , I know what he meant.

 

“This is the last minute,” says Anders. He’s yelling over the din of sirens and circling helicopters outside. “If anyone wants to leave, no one will stop you!”

People shout from everywhere that they’re with him. It’s a cacophony of support, a symphony of corroboration.

“Then may the maker be with you,” says Anders. Then he smiles, “Or some such shit…”

And everyone laughs, even though they know as well as I do that this is the end — that many of them won’t make it out of here alive.

There are two groups: one group who has already left to stage explosions at the largest internment camp, and us… the ones who stayed behind as a diversion.

“You know what you have to do,” says Anders, with finality. “See you out there.”

He nods and everyone dispurses. The plans were laid weeks ago, but nothing is guaranteed. I can see the worry in every face — in Anders’ the most of all.

“Hey,” I whisper, grabbing him by the elbow. “Why did you stay behind?”

He squints at me.

“Why didn’t you go with the other group?” I reiterate.

“The police will be looking for me,” he says. “Besides… this… they…”

I nod. “They need you here…”

He smiles sadly. “You always understood what I wanted to say better than I did…”

We laugh mirthlessly and he bites his lip. Ostensibly, he means his campaign speeches… but I think he might mean something _else_ , too. We stand there, staring at each other for what feels like too long.

“Besides, they’re my family…” says Anders finally.

“All of them?”

He nods. “Every single one.”

...and Bull’s sentiment recurs to me. _It’s not blood, but belief_. I swallow around a lump in my throat and feel sweat on the back of my neck. Something’s changing — faster than I can comprehend... This is it: the pivotal moment of choosing… and it’s _him_ : he’s my family. So I grab out without thinking and pull myself into his chest. My cheek presses against his shoulder and I wrap my arms around his back and hold him as tight as I can. I can feel his heart beating against mine — syncopated and irregular, but there — and hear him breathing in surprised bursts.

“Dorian?” he whispers.

I don’t move to look at him; I don’t move an inch. I just stand there, holding onto him like he’s a home… because he actually is, I realize — my home.

“Dorian…” he repeats. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

I’m not sure what he means until I realize my face is wet. I’m _crying_ … but it isn’t a function of sadness, or even or fear, it’s gratefulness.

He shushes and coos like he’s talking to a toddler, but I barely hear it. It isn’t until he stops talking, stops moving, that something shifts.

“Dorian, I _love_ you,” he says, rasping.

_What?_

I burst into tears against his shirt. It’s ragged and gross and I’ve never felt so vulnerable and wrecked, but it’s _wonderful_. I realize that declarations of love are usually reciprocal, but I can’t find words — any of them — so I just cry and try to breathe.

He moves his hands to pull me in closer, running one to the back of my neck and holding my head while I cry in a way I can’t control. “It’s okay…” he soothes.

“No!” I shout, suddenly wrenching myself backward to look him in the eye. “It isn’t okay. I… I… and you’re…”

“I know…” he says, licking his lips and blinking.

“Anders?” I reach up and grab his chin. “Look at me.”

He blinks a few times and focuses.

“Do you see me?” I ask.

He nods as much as he can with my hand still cupping his jaw.

“This is _me_ — completely ruined,” I say.

His eyes narrow, like he isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do.

“ _You_ did this. You… you did this… and I — and I don’t mind if you see it. I don’t mind if you look.”

He starts to smile — just a tiny quirk of one corner of his mouth.

“And if it really is the end — of the world… or even just of _us_ — I want to show you… who I am… who you’ve _helped me_ to be.”

His expression softens, and I watch his eyes get glassy. I know he won’t cry like I am — he does emotions in a very different way — but even the semblance means something.

“Before you, Anders, I didn’t have anything to believe in,” I say. “I was this fucking _asshole_ just working in politics and buying shit… manipulating people and developing inventive ways to be cruel… fucking around and _not_ caring…” I explain, gesturing wildly with my head because I’m not willing to let go of him with either hand. “...and then here you were — this weird, amazing, crazy anarchist… with _horrible hair_.” I laugh, but it turns into a sob so strong I have to sink to my knees. I drag him down with me until we’re again eye to eye on the floor.

“And I’m sorry I cut it, by the way,” I add, reaching up to touch his cheek, where a too-long piece used to flop. “I really am…”

He shakes his head and reaches out for me, finds the points of my elbows and meat of my arms.

“...and you showed me how beautiful the world could be — and how horrible,” I continue. “You showed me the best and worst of people, of yourself… and somehow, along the way, you showed me the best in _me_ , too.”

He squints like he doesn’t understand.

I take in a breath and search the corners of the room. I don’t know how to explain it — how to condense the last year into the time we have _left_.

“In all those months that we didn’t talk… I never went back to politics, you know,” I say. “I finally did something with anthropology; I was a professor.”

He laughs thickly, “Really?”

I nod. “I was kind of bad at it, but it happened.”

He sniffs, rubbing the sleeve of his shirt across his eyes.

“I never stopped thinking about you — arguing with the _you_ in my mind… the _you_ who challenged me, who pushed me, who made me _think_.” I scoot closer on my knees and take his face in my hands. “You’re _not_ the best person I know; you’re not even _good_ …” I sob, eyes refilling with blinding tears, “but you’re _mine_ — the embodiment of what I want the world to be…”

He gasps, then, shaking in a silent, tearless, version of a sob.

“...I love you too,” I whisper, barely able to believe that this is happening, but also unable to deny its inevitability. “And in another life, I would demand we sit in this fucking disgusting room and work this out until we figure out who we are and what to do… but…”

He shakes his head, like he can’t bear to hear what I’m about to say next, but I can’t stop now.

“...but we’re going to die today,” I finish. “And because of that we don’t have time to dick around. So, Anders… I love you; I wish I’d been braver and told you earlier, but I didn’t… so I need you to know that I’m with you — in whatever time we have left.”

He bites his lip, an errant tear running silently down one cheek, and swallows like there’s glass in his throat.

“This person I met once told me that you figure out what you believe in and the rest falls into place — you’ll find your people,” I say. “But I think he had it a little backward… I found you and you showed me rest… you helped me find _me_.”

Something changes in his expression; the world speeds up. He grabs the side of my neck and pulls me in. The kiss is wet with tears and I know our faces are caked with dirt and sweat, but it’s beautiful — the rawest, realest thing I think I’ve ever felt in my life.

...and it occurs to me all at once: I’m Dorian, and for the first time I’m not _at all_ charming, but I’m _sincere_.

 

* * *

 

THREE YEARS LATER

 

Merrill stands behind the podium, leaning heavily. She’s barely tall enough to see over it, but she still seems imposing. Even after all this time — and how well we know each other now — she frightens me a little.

“Anders was never one for titles,” she says. “He hated to be called an activist; he hated terrorist slightly less I think…” The crowd laughs from under dozens of black umbrellas. “I think he would have _hated_ Hero the most of all.

“And we’re here today to give him a medal — finally — for the role he played in exposing this plot… in taking out a mastermind before he could commit genocide.” She sighs and puts a hand over her eyes for a moment. “And none of it is good. It’s all horrible and sick and tragic… but _Anders_ wasn’t any of those things. He was _great_ — he was full of life and sense and hope and _magic_. And those are the things he left behind for us, too.”

From my vantage point in the second row, I can see the breadth of this: people from every walk of life are here on this new holiday — this day of remembrance. And it took a lot to get here: explosions and war and death and sacrifice. I feel it just like all these other people do; we’re healing collectively.

“It’s awful that Anders isn’t here to see it,” says Merrill heavily. “But he wouldn’t want me to harp on that. He’d want me to encourage all of you…” She looks out over the crowd, eyes darting from face to face. “ _You’re_ the ones he did this for.”

           

“It was a great service,” says Alistair. He loops his arm through mine and pulls me close so we can share his umbrella.

“Thank you, Amatus…” I lean in and kiss his cheek as we start to walk. “I can’t believe it took three fucking years…”

He nods, looking down at the ground. “I know…”

The wet leaves crunch noisily beneath our feet and we breathe together.

“But he would have been really proud of what you’ve done,” Alistair adds, finally.

“You think so?”

“Definitely. And I’m proud too… the way you’ve championed the cause… _Mr. Senator_... The work you’ve done with the foundation — the magic schools… he wouldn’t believe it.”

“I think he would have hated the policial piece, actually. He always did…” I smile sadly and we keep walking. It’s quiet for a while — rain punches the umbrella; someone laughs far away.

“Hey Dorian… do you think… if he’d lived… our lives would be different?” Alistair asks quietly.

“Yes,” I say.

“How?”

“I don’t think we’d be this far along; I think that Anders’ death spurred people to really start to question our government, our culture, our collective beliefs. He makes a good martyr, to be honest—”

“—no,” Alistair interrupts. “I mean… do you think _our_ lives would be different…?”

“Oh.” I lick my lips and swallow. “How long have you wanted to ask me that?”

“A while… it never seemed appropriate while you were working so hard for this.”

I nod, still not looking at him. “ _Yes_. They’d be different.” Then I stop walking, pulling him so we’re face to face. “I loved him — I love him still — but… I love _you_ too… and we would have worked that out; I know it.”

He smiles faintly.

“...and I know that’s easy to _say_ … but… you know you can _believe_ stuff when I say it, right?”

“Of course I do,” he says, eyes twinkling. “You’re the most honest person I know.” He squeezes my arm and pulls me back into his side.

As we continue to walk, arm in arm, I remember back to a time when that wasn’t true and think about how far I’ve come — how far we’ve _all_ come.

...and it’s all thanks to Anders, who gave me something to believe in.

 

THE END

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to take a second to thank all of you who left comments and sent me private notes and did all the loveliest things about this story... it's a bit of a different one, by design, but I wasn't sure how it would translate and I'm so pleased that this meant something to so many of you. :)
> 
> Thank you again.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [little_abyss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_abyss), who always lets me write with the door open and tells me when I've gone off the deep end. <3


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